We, In Faith
by Elagabalus
Summary: [AU] The world believes that Harry Potter died sixteen years ago while his parents survived. But with the Triwizard Tournament finally starting, why has this boy that looks so much like the Potters appeared? ON HIATUS
1. Uncertainty

**We, In Faith**

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter One**: Uncertainty

* * *

"How much _longer_ already?" James complained obnoxiously.

It was freezing cold on this October evening and these blasted foreigners still had yet to show hide or hair of themselves. He was not often prone to bouts of childlike impatience but being back at his old school after so long and the fervent excitement of the students milling, crowded about him had infected James with an overwhelming sense of euphoria and glad anticipation. Still, despite all of this, he was extremely glad for once to have the chance to act like the right idiot he was.

Lily glanced, amused at her husband. She knew when he had insisted on not taking a cloak that this would happen. Really, whatever convinced some men that standing out in the chill practically naked was so strong and… _manly_ was beyond her. But some testosterone-driven tendencies were inevitable for some people.

Sidling closer, a handsomely aged man with his dark hair pulled back in what he considered a right dashing ponytail rubbed his arms and gnashed his teeth in a vain attempt to bring warmth to his body.

"I'm with you, James," Sirius muttered. "These people should get their sorry arses down here at once."

Beside Lily, Remus Lupin sighed and rolled his eyes. "Sirius, these people should have been down here with their 'sorry arses', as you so charmingly put it, three years ago."

"Yeah, and I wonder whose fault that was," he replied, looking pointedly at James and Lily.

"Hey, Hey!" James complained, raising his hands as if to knock away unwarranted blows, "_We_ were never part of the planning committee."

Sirius snorted. "Guilty by association."

Ever since the Potters had bagged the job of aurors at the Ministry, Sirius had made a point of complaining about every single little failure and fault of the government to his two friends, and the disastrous results from the attempt to resurrect the Triwaizard Tournament from three years ago had been no different. Somehow the Ministry had gathered so many problems surrounding the Tournament, that they just plum out decided to postpone it until it could be correctly and carefully organized again.

The said problems had been terrible embarrassments and had included: a spy harboring info in and out of England to the two other schools involved for copious amounts of money, the dragons planned to be used for the First Task quite suddenly being startled into a stampede that crushed their egg clutches because of government officials inspecting them far too 'personally' (these green agents these days always got terribly excited when something larger and more dangerous than a niffler was staring them down), the mermaid negotiations failing miserably when someone had thought it quite proper to inquire about 'southerly bodily functions', and other (slightly less humiliating) legal mishaps.

The current Tournament committee had taken all of their predecessors' mistakes and carefully planned out the Tasks and security with more caution. The 'security' was two aurors commissioned to keep an eye on things at each major event in the Tournament such as the Welcoming Feast, the Tasks, and so on. Upon hearing about the fairly easy job that was comparative to babysitting, Lily and James had immediately volunteered. Being able to see their old friends, the Professors Lupin and Black, and their son frequently throughout the events had been an extra bonus.

_Their son…_ Lily frowned vaguely. "Just imagine…" she had murmured before she had realized it.

James looked at her, slightly concerned. "Imagine what, Lily?"

"Oh…" she blinked at her husband. "I was just thinking that Harry would have been old enough to be a Champion this year…"

Sirius and Remus glanced at each other nervously. James stared at his wife in surprise and swallowed convulsively. She looked away, flushed.

"Yeah, but, unfortunately, we only have a naughty little fourth-year," Prongs abruptly stated with much exaggerated gusto, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. "It really is a great disappointment to this poor old man who had such high hopes for great glory and honor and what not."

"Well, I'm _so_ terribly sorry that I can't age three years at the snap of a finger, _Dad_," a sarcastic voice sounded at James's side.

Looking down at a lanky fourteen-year old, he grinned. That was his Ainsley, all right. A regular chip off the old block. "Really, son, you wound me! I'd have never spoken to my parents in such a way!" he exclaimed dramatically.

Everyone in hearing vicinity snorted loudly. James gazed about innocently and most everyone roared with laughter.

In truth, James was extremely relieved to have changed the subject. Ever since the loss of their first child, Lily and James had struggled to overcome the grief and horror of it. Their supposed friend, Peter Pettigrew, had been asked to look after Harry that Halloween night while the Potters were out on important business. Upon receiving full access to the only thing that stood in the way of his master Voldemort, Peter had lead the Dark Lord to Godric's Hollow and betrayed their trust. No one really knew exactly what had happened that night, because by the time James and Lily had arrived back home, the house was burning down fiercely and the dark mark was shining horridly above their heads.

They had attempted to douse the flames, but it had been in vain. When Ministry help finally arrived, it was too late. What little was left of the house they had made a home of was unrecognizable. They were unable to find Harry _or_ Peter. However, after three weeks of searching, Pettigrew was sighted and captured in Prague. They were only able to learn from him that he had indeed been the one to inform Voldemort before he suddenly managed to escape, in the form of a rat. A week later his body was found in a gully, cause of death unknown.

It was around this time that the Death Eaters disbanded and Voldemort's attacks ceased completely. The entire wizarding world was amazed; how could the loss of a tiny baby's life (certainly he had not survived, what with an attack from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself and then that terrible fire) have caused the downfall of one of the most powerful wizards in history? Many suspected that he was only in hiding, biding his time until he could pounce. However, all of the ex-Death Eaters captured had wildly claimed that it had indeed been the fault of that 'gods-cursed Potter brat'. No one was completely sure, but they were all too weary from the war to not be relieved. They soon found themselves lulling into a calm peace.

As for the Potters, they suffered greatly over Harry. They were both overwhelmed with regret that he never had had a chance for a good, normal childhood. He never had a chance to grow up. But soon the years passed and the sharp pain dulled to a distant ache. Then Ainsley was born. Both knew that even though he would not be able to replace Harry, they would both love him just as much as they had their first.

"…such an idiot, James!" Lily's voice suddenly broke through her husband's musings.

He looked at his her mildly and said sweetly, "But I'm _your_ idiot, Lily-Flower!"

"Is that so, Jamesie?" she answered, smiling.

Ainsley looked between them, slightly green. "I'm gonna be sick."

"Hey, look at it this way, kid," Sirius said, grinning, "at least you haven't walked in on them!"

The dark-cherry haired boy looked at his godfather, horrified.

"I think you've mentally scared him for life, Padfoot," Remus coughed lightly, grinning.

James looked at Sirius indignantly. "Really, Sirius, you know how expensive psychiatry sessions are nowadays!"

Ainsley sniffed in an effort to look scornful, which turned out more like he had the sniffles, and stalked away like an angry cat.

Lily rolled her eyes and removed James's arm, which had snaked around her waist and stated loftily, "The three of you act like utter children at times. I don't see how you sleep at night."

"Oh, it's horrible, Li– "

"Hush!" interrupted Remus suddenly, "Look!" His hand pointed out a large black blob out in sky.

"That must be Beauxbatons…" Lily muttered as she squinted at the sky. "Did anyone hear how they were coming?"

"No, but we should head over there in any case," Remus answered, starting down the steps of Hogwarts castle where the old school friends had been chatting amicably.

James and Sirius looked at each other and gave a collective sigh. Time to act like adults again. The pair followed after Lily and Remus who were steadily making a part through the bay of students. Approaching the head of the crowd, the rest of the school staff came into view- all waiting with eyes avidly watching the approaching figures in the sky.

Sighting his old headmaster, James smiled and waved sunnily. Dumbledore smiled back, blue eyes amused.

"Hallo, Severus! Long time no see." James said cheerfully, slipping up beside a certain potions master.

"Potter, if you had any brains at all you would have recalled the displeasure of having to set up your 'security measures' through myself just this morning. Fortunately, as you have no brains, I believe I shall deign to ignore your ignorance." Snape's voice was filled with utter contempt and he had stared directly forward through his entire harangue.

James grinned. "But, Severus, since I've no brains how can you expect me to understand such big words?"

"James!" Lily glared at him furiously.

He quailed under her looks and kept his mouth shut, gazing with everyone else at the dark figures in the sky. Snape snorted scornfully.

Soon the vague shapes became more distinct as they quickly advanced on the castle. It was three black carriages, two smaller and one larger. They were utterly huge, each the size of a house, and were being pulled swiftly through the air by perhaps two dozen white, winged horses as large as small elephants.

The students oohed and aahed, particularly the girls, as the coaches landed gracefully on the soft turf. Up close you could tell they were extremely valuable from the intricate gold edging and gild. On each door was an emblem of two crossed wands each emitting stars. And the horses were nothing if not beautifully impressive and dignified.

The door of one of the smaller carriages opened and a small, silvery carpeted staircase extended smoothly down to the grass. Around six silken and fur robed young men descended down the steps. Several girls (and a few boys) could be heard sighing appreciatively. One rushed quickly, yet gracefully, toward the larger carriage as the rest headed at a slower pace to the last one. Reaching up the side of the bigger coach, the boy tapped it lightly with his wand. It opened just as the other had and the flight of steps was much the same except looking a bit sturdier and wider. An immense figure could be seen preparing to alight.

A few people gasped, despite McGonagall's severe looks. James himself was quite startled as well. He wasn't sure that he'd ever seen someone so large as Madame Olympe Maxime. Except perhaps the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts, Rubeus Hagrid. Still, perhaps it was simply because he had seen so much of Hagrid that Madame Maxime seemed quite a bit larger. Her shoes seemed the size of a child's sled and the carriages and horses suddenly seemed incredibly dwarfed by the woman. She had a handsome, olive-skinned face with large, onyx, liquid-looking eyes. Her nose was faintly reminiscent of Snape's over-sized conk. She was adorned elegantly in black satin and lace with a gray furred shawl draped casually about her strong shoulders. The teen that had stood respectfully by the carriage gave a deep bow as she nodded to him.

Dumbledore started to clap and the rest followed his lead. Madame Maxime smiled graciously and moved forward, extending a bejeweled hand. The headmaster, though quite tall himself, had only to barely bob his head to kiss it. Behind them, the other boys could be seen opening the last carriage in the same manner. Half a dozen girls flitted gracefully down, curtsying as the boys bowed. Each youth offered his arm forward and his partner accepted, clinging daintily.

James was sure that Ainsley was quite revolted by their behavior. He himself felt a bit nauseous by the entire rigmarole and, glancing at Sirius, he could tell he felt similarly. Lily was delighted. Typical woman.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Dumbledore began, "my dear Madame Maxime."

The Beauxbatons students began lining up behind their headmistress.

"Dumbly–dorr, I 'ope I find you well?" Madame Maxime inquired with deep, rich voice.

"In excellent health, I thank you," he answered.

Waving a hand behind her carelessly, she said, "My pupils."

Each teen bowed or curtsied, studying the headmaster impassively. Creepy lot.

"What do you zink of my carriages?" she said, looking proudly at the beautiful, looming figures behind them. "I 'ad planned only to bring one, but zen we 'ad three extra years to prepare, so I am afraid zat I could not resist…"

"They are quite magnificent," Dumbledore commented, admiring them himself.

"Yes… well, Karkaroff 'as not arrived yet?" asked Madame Maxime.

"I'm afraid not," said Dumbledore. "Would you like to step inside to warm up or would you like to stay and greet him?"

"I think warm up, but ze 'orses…" she replied.

Dumbledore smiled. "Our Care if Magical Creatures teacher will be absolutely delighted to care for them."

Sirius startled and looked alarmed. He looked desperately as James, who merely shrugged. Sirius began to edge away, disappearing into the crowd.

"Sirius? Would you care to…" the headmaster began but trailed off as he could not spot the missing professor.

"Dumbly-dorr?" Madame Maxime queried.

"I'm sure I just saw him… James, do you know where Sirius is?"

James searched his mind frantically for an answer. "Er… I'm not sure. He was right here just a moment ago… He might be in the loo or something…" Clever.

Lily stared at him, aghast. James was never one to pretty up words.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly. "Well, I'm sure he will be back quite soon."

"But my steeds require – er, how do you say, – forceful 'andling," Madame Maxime said hesitantly. She looked as though she doubted whether anyone at Hogwarts could handle her horses. James privately agreed with her. "Zey are very strong…"

"I assure you that Sirius will be up to the job," said Dumbledore.

"Very well," Madame Maxime bowed slightly as she replied. "Will you please inform zis Zirius zat ze 'orses drink only single-malt whiskey?"

Dumbledore bowed in return. "It shall be attended to."

"Come," Madame Maxime imperiously ordered her students, and they parted the way before them through the Hogwarts crowd. They passed serenely up the stone steps.

James grinned and turned slightly toward Remus. "How long do you think old Padfoot will hide?"

"Probably till the start of dinner," he replied as he rolled his eyes. "You know how he is with that stomach."

"Why, Moony! You should have more faith in your friends," James gasped mockingly. "I say until tomorrow… Care to make it interesting?"

Remus's eyebrows rose. "Five galleons."

"Deal."

Lily ignored them. She wished they would get over this whole school days fever, or whatever it was, and act their ages and not their wand lengths.

"Hey, Lily!" James called. "Wanna get some this action?"

Exasperated, Lily sighed, "No, James, I do not. In fact, I find myself quite loath to stay in the presence of _any_ Marauder." She looked sharply at Remus at the last part, as if she had expected better of him.

"Aw, Lils–"

But she was already headed back toward the castle, ignoring James's half-hearted pleas.

"James," Remus said, frowning, "do you hear something?"

Prongs stood silent, listening. An odd noise was drifting upward from the ground. It was like a muffled rumbling and thundering sound, moving steadily nearer and becoming louder. Several shouts of 'the ground!' sounded throughout the crowd of students. They looked about nervously, wondering if they should run somewhere.

Peering past Snape, James watched the smooth surface of the turf as it suddenly became not quite so smooth. A great disturbance was taking place in the middle of the Hogwarts grounds. Mounds of earth began to bulge and collapse like water; waves of dirt and soil began to surge and buckle. And then, right in the very middle, a tall, slender mast appeared and the earth began to swirl like a whirlpool. Slowly, majestically, a ship rose out of the earth, covered in soft clay. It looked much like a restored sea wreck, with dusky light spilling forth from portholes like phantom eyes. Finally, with a great crumbling, booming sound, the ship emerged completely and settled upon the ground. The clunk of a plank could be heard.

People were disembarking; they could see several bulky silhouettes pausing in the light from the portholes. As they neared, James noticed that their stoutness was due to cloaks of an odd matted and shaggy fur, not hereditary. But the man leading them was dressed quite differently; his furs were sleek and silver, much like his hair.

"Dumbledore!" he called heartily, climbing up the slope. "How are you, how are you, my dear fellow?"

"Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff," the headmaster replied stepping forward to shake his hand.

Karkaroff had a fruity, unctuous voice; when he stepped into the light pouring from the castle's front doors they saw he was rather tall and rake-like, similar to Dumbledore. However, his white hair was short, and his weak chin was not entirely hidden by his goatee that finished in a curl.

"Dear old Hogwarts," he murmured, looking up at the castle and smiling; his teeth were quite yellow and his smile contrasted sharply with cold, shrewd eyes. "How wonderful to be here, how wonderful… But, anyway, Dumbledore, I hope you don't mind that about your lawn…" He gestured vaguely behind. "But you see… those mermaids… Well, I'm sure you understand."

Dumbledore nodded graciously and replied, "Of course, of course, it is really actually own our part to apologize to you; it was our duty to guarantee the success of those negotiations, and we failed…"

"Ach, nonsense, nonsense! No harm, absolutely no harm in getting in a bit of mud!" He laughed harshly.

Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively and added, "Perhaps we should get in from the cold, Professor Karkaroff? I'm sure the students would be quite grateful to finally fill their aching bellies, and truthfully, so would I!"

Karkaroff laughed his strange, brutal laugh and followed Dumbledore as he headed up to the castle. The shivering Hogwarts students followed with their teachers (and James) trailing behind.

* * *

"This is _awful_." 

Jean glanced at Meri through the corner of his eye. The brunette was staring about this 'Great Hall' glumly. By the way he looked around in a slightly lofty manner, she could tell he agreed with her. The benches and tables were made of a rough, uncomfortable wood and the cheap enchantment on the ceiling looked terribly tacky. It was all coarse, harsh angles with nothing but horrid wood and freezing cold stone. Meri shivered beside him and clutched a small fur cape closer.

"And what a draft!" she complained loudly, in French as before.

Their classmates lined down the table nodded sympathetically.

"Meri, perhaps it would be wiser to be more considerate of the… understandable shortcomings of our hosts…" Jean murmured softly to her.

Turning to him, Meri glared fiercely. "Oh, that's perfectly easy for you, Prince Charming, but we simple plebeians unfortunately need far more comforts."

"If you say so, dear Mariette," he smiled softly at her, amused.

She stuck her lip out in a pout. She could never really actually stay angry with Jean for long. He was too sly with the way he used his charm to soothe her irritability. And it was only with her that he used it for that reason, except perhaps a few others. She shook her head. Sometimes Jean was all too crafty for his own good.

"Hmm… there are too many chairs up there…" Jean muttered, staring up at the long table facing the other four tables meant for students. "There should be only two more…"

Meri rolled her eyes. "Does it matter?"

"None whatsoever." He grinned at her, casually running a hand through his dusky hair. "They must be for British Ministry officials…"

"And _how_, pray tell, did you come to that conclusion?" she asked indifferently.

"Did you not count those teachers outside? And those two aurors? Include Headmistress and Professor Karkaroff, and you have two seats left. Only someone from the Ministry would be allowed to dine here today… so you see."

Skeptical, Meri said, "How could you tell the aurors from the teachers?"

"Their hands were rougher. And their stances were very alert." He answered, watching as dozens of Hogwarts students filed in.

She sighed, wondering why she even bothered. It would only make her feel even more the little idiot for not being as observant and oh so terribly clever as Jean. He was extremely annoying at times. But nothing in the world would ever be able to convince her that he wasn't the most wonderful friend anyone could hope for.

Beside her, Jean cleared his throat, watching several students around their age approach the table at which they were sitting. "Meri, please try and keep your temper for this one night?"

She looked at him suspiciously. Meri was very aware that she had a horribly short fuse and knew that Jean never really minded it. The only reason he would ask such a thing was if he were planning something. And Jean never planned something if it weren't worth it. "If I must."

He nodded and smiled as a few Hogwarts students sat across from them. How extraordinarily plain they were! A girl with horribly frizzy hair that made her look like some sort of hedge, a freckled, gangly boy with red hair that surely must have clashed with anything he attempted to wear, and a girl that seemed to be some sort of relation to the redhead.

The first girl smiled tentatively and held out a hand, "Um, hi. I'm Hermione Granger… oh! You do speak English, don't you?"

Jean leaned forward slightly and clasped her hand bringing it up to his lips with a polite kiss. "It iz a pleasure, Mizz Granger. I am Jean Pole. And yes, we both speak English."

Meri held out her hand demurely and said, "I am Mariette Clehedault. A pleasure, I'm sure, Mizz Granger." Really, Jean and his dramatics! She had only followed suit because she trusted him to not make a fool out the two of them.

The silly, frizzy Granger blushed and shook her head wildly, "Oh, really, you can just call me Hermione…"

"Ron Weasley." The tall redhead said shortly, yet politely. How clever. Meri noticed the boy staring a bit too long at her. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes; what a terrible curse extreme beauty such as hers was!

The other girl elbowed him subtly as she said, "I'm Ginny Weasley."

"It iz lovely to meet you, Ginny." Jean said as he kissed her hand. "Younger zister?" He added, looking at Ron.

"Er, yeah, she is…" Ron said suspiciously, glaring at him.

Jean smiled back pleasantly. "Ah, do not worry. I mean no 'arm; it is only customary to greet young ladies in zuch a way in France…"

He looked relieved. "Well, if you say so."

Some people were far too gullible to be allowed.

"Zo, are any you zeventeen yet?" Jean inquired casually, his eyes the color of fresh cut grass glinted shrewdly. Meri leaned forward, her waves of hair like maple syrup brushing the table. Now they were getting to the point.

Hermione nodded and answered, "Yes, both Ron and I are. I'm not exactly sure if I'll be entering the Tournament though…"

"I am!" Ron jumped in enthusiastically. "I can't wait; I'm so going to be the Champion and win that prize money." He began staring off dreamily.

Meri doubted whether a greedy moron like this boy would ever be able to succeed in the eyes of the Goblet of Fire, let alone any of the Tasks. Jean's amused smile seemed to be saying the same.

"Ron, I wouldn't get your hopes up yet; we don't even who the judge will be," said Ginny.

Strange, hadn't their headmaster informed them? But then again, Dumbledore was quite notorious for being overtly fair and just. How typical it would be of him to leave his students ignorant about such an important step in winning great honor for their school. Meri decided the British were goody-two-shoe idiots.

Jean's face showed no trace of surprise as he said, "I do not zink zat you need to worry about ze judge; it must 'ave remained entirely impartial after all zese years or zey would not allow it to perform such an important task." It. Jean said 'it' not 'he' or 'she'. Was he mad? They wanted them to be completely ignorant; they were enemies! Just leaving that one little clue could lead any sensible person to the truth.

"True," said Hermione, "I guess we'll get the best person to represent our school no matter what."

"I'll be happy as long as it isn't a Hufflepuff, a Ravenclaw, or a Slytherin," Ron stated, crinkling his nose in distaste. "Or even worse– _Malfoy_."

He spat out the last word like a filthy curse. Jean's brows rose in surprise, genuine or otherwise, Meri couldn't tell.

"Iz zis Malfoy really zat 'orrible?" he inquired.

"Yes, he's the most arrogant, ugly, stuck-up, annoying, and jerky prat in the world!" Ron chanted angrily.

Hermione and Ginny rolled their eyes.

"Feel free to tune him out," Ginny said. "He's just jealous of Malfoy."

Ears turning bright red, Ron glared at his sister. "Me? Jealous? Are you _mad_!"

"Where iz zis Malfoy?" Jean asked Hermione. She pointed out a blonde across the hall.

"That's him."

Meri noticed that the Durmstrang students had decided to be seated with the Slytherins where Malfoy also was. They looked positively delighted to be in the dingy castle, fingering and examining the cheap golden plates and goblets and gazing open-mouthed at the ceiling.

However, the boy that Hermione pointed out was looking at the other guests with something like malicious amusement. He was also speaking candidly with several other Hogwarts students and gazing calculatingly at the visitors.

Jean nudged her slightly as the three sitting in front of them got caught up in their own discussion. Switching back to French he murmured to her. "Watch him. He's doing exactly what we are. I've heard of this Malfoy from the Poles, and from what the redhead said, he must be at least fairly competent."

Meri nodded slightly. So far from what they had seen, he was looking like the best choice to be the Hogwarts Champion. Jean and she had both agreed that a candidate from Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw would be unlikely because of past Triwizard records showing that the vast majority of Hogwarts Champions had come from Gryffindor and Slytherin for whatever reason. They would have to keep an eye on this Malfoy for the rest of the evening, but should probably still keep an eye out for anyone else the Goblet would be likely select.

Then the student body began to finally settle and the staff entered. Headmistress Maxime entered and instantly, Jean, Meri, and every other Beauxbatons student leaped respectfully to their feet. A few of the Hogwarts students laughed. Meri glared at the nearest offender and he crumbled under her fierce glare, looking alarmed. Honestly, the barbarians!

Headmistress was soon seated and her students lowered themselves back down onto the hard benches. Meri quickly turned to Jean and whispered rapidly to him in angry French. The three across the table looked at her nervously. Jean shook his head and raised a hand to cut her off as Dumbledore remained standing.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, spirits, and – most especially – guests," he said, beaming at them. "I have the wonderful pleasure of welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable."

Meri could not help but give a derisive laugh as the old man said this. Several Gryffindors around her bristled while her classmates glanced up at her, amused.

"The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast, but I know invite you to all drink, eat, and make yourselves at home!" said Dumbledore, sitting down. Karkaroff leaned over to speak with him.

Hermione was glaring at Meri as her friends nervously stared at her. Jean gave her a cool look and turned to the Gryffindors with an apologetic smile.

"You'll 'ave to forgive my friend– she iz very proud but really means no 'arm…"

The girl looked slightly mollified but turned to Meri almost expectantly. Jean gave her a meaningful look.

"Meri, please apologize…" he murmured in French.

She glared at them all. How dare they think that she would humble herself to such ingrates! And Jean, she would have thought that he at least would not lower himself to such a level. She sprung up with a haughty glare and whispered fiercely to Jean, "If you think that I am going to apologize for such a thing to neanderthals, you've another thing coming!" She stalked away to sit by several Beauxbatons girls.

Jean sighed softly. He should have known better than to expect Mariette Clehedault to forget her pride.

* * *

At the staff table James was just getting into a fierce conversation with Ludo Bagman over Quidditch. Barty Crouch, who had arrived with Ludo, was giving them a look as if he had suddenly smelled something extremely smelly. Crouch always was a bit of a stick in the mud. 

Lily, beside James, was letting her eyes roam over the students. She was making a strange face and James was worried she was still thinking about Harry. He opened his mouth to reassure her, but Dumbledore suddenly rose to his feet.

"The moment has arrived," he announced, smiling as a pleasant, expectant tension built up in the sea of upturned faces. "The Triwizard Tournament is shortly to begin. I would like to say a few words in the way of explanation before we bring out the casket –" That would be the casket holding the Goblet of Fire. Lily and James had been informed to the utmost detail about the competition so that they could be properly aware of all the measures that should be undertaken to best fulfill their jobs as Tournament security. "– just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. First, though, let me introduce, for those that do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation" – there were snatches of polite applause – "and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of Department of Magical Games and Sports."

There was much louder applause for Ludo than Crouch, most likely because of his fame as a Beater, or simply because he didn't look like a constipated fish.

"We also have the delight of two aurors entering our halls, Mr. James Potter and Mrs. Lily Potter," Dumbledore continued. Lily and James rose to their feet as eager applause spilled forth for them. James grinned cockily as his wife shook her head at him. No doubt most of the people here had heard about the heroic exploits of the Potters. Or, more likely, the story of their baby from sixteen years ago. Ainsley and several other Gryffindor boys were giving them catcalls.

"Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few years – " here a ludicrous snort sounded at James's left. Looking over, he saw Sirius looking at Dumbledore with faint indignation. James caught his eye and Sirius smiled sheepishly. Padfoot silently mouthed 'got hungry'. Damn. He owed Moony five galleons now.

"– will be joining Madame Maxime, Professor Karkaroff, and myself on the panel that will be judging the champions' endeavors." Dumbledore was still speaking. "Mr. and Mrs. Potter will be making sure that the Tournament security is at its best."

"Mr. Filch, the casket, if you please." The attentions of the waiting students sharpened and they trained their eyes on Dumbledore with bated breath. The headmaster smiled.

Filch, who had been skulking unnoticed in a far corner of the Great Hall, approached Dumbledore bearing a great wooden chest encrusted with jewels. It looked ancient. A murmur of excited curiosity whispered throughout the students; a fourth year Gryffindor boy with a mousy look actually stood on his chair to see it properly. James vaguely remembered him as being one of Ainsley's friends.

"Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman have already thoroughly examined the instructions for the tasks the champions shall undergo and have made the necessary preparations," went on Dumbledore as Filch placed the casket carefully in front of him. "There will be three tasks, spanning throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways… their daring – their magical prowess – and, of course, their ability to cope with and endure danger."

At the last word, the entire hall was filled with complete, utter silence as if no one dared to breathe. James was tempted to turn over a chair or something with a loud bang just get a rise out of them.

"As you have already been told, only three champions can compete in the tournament," Dumbledore continued calmly, "one from each of the participating schools. They will each be marked on how well they perform the Tournament Tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an unbiased selector: the Goblet of Fire."

Dumbledore now took out his wand and tapped the chest lightly three times. The lid groaned open slowly. Dumbledore reached inside it and carefully pulled out a large, crudely hewn wooden cup. It would have been utterly plain and common if it were not for the pale, bluish flames that filled it to the brim.

Dumbledore re–closed the chest and placed the goblet atop, clearly visible to everyone in the Hall.

"Anyone wishing to submit themselves as a champion must write his or her name and school clearly on a piece of parchment and drop it into the goblet," said Dumbledore. "Aspiring champions have twenty–four hours in which to put forth their entry. Tomorrow, Halloween night, the goblet will give back the names of the three it has deemed worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely available to all those wishing to contend.

"To ensure that underage students do not yield to temptation," continued Dumbledore, "I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been put in the entrance hall. Nobody will be able to cross this line if they are under or over the age of seventeen.

"In conclusion, I wish to impress upon anyone wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into frivolously. Once the Goblet of Fire has selected a champion, they are obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet enacts a magical binding contract. There can be no changes of heart once you have become champion. Please be very sure, accordingly, that you are fully prepared to play before you drop your name in the goblet. Now, I believe it is time for bed. Good night to all of you."

Feeling Remus's eyes on him, James hurriedly got up from the table and made to leave. Unfortunately, a hand reached out and stopped him. James looked down at his wife's scowling face.

"James, you owe Remus," she warned. "If you really insist on making petty bets then at least have the integrity to honor them."

"Bet? What bet?" Sirius looked slightly pained, disappointed he had missed out on the fun.

James looked nervously at Remus, Sirius, and Lily. "Er, well, that is…"

"They were betting on how it would take you to come out of hiding, Sirius," Lily pronounced.

"Yes, and I won," said Remus smugly, "so pay up Prongs!"

Grumbling, he reluctantly pulled out five galleons and handed them over, giving all of them a dirty look. The group stepped down from the dais where the staff table was placed and inched along through a crowd of groggy but excited students. All of them were gossiping on who they thought would be the best candidate for champion was, and the more daring were plotting a way across the Age Line. Lily gave Ainsley a righteous glare when he passed by, speculating to a friend on where to get ingredients for an Aging Potion. James merely grinned and gave him two thumbs–up.

"So, Sirius, how did you handle those h– " James was interrupted abruptly as he crashed right into a student. The boy stumbled to the ground, cursing in French.

"Oh crap!" James cried as he quickly tried to help him up. The boy slapped his hands away and rose to his feet, dusting off emerald robes and glaring at James. "I'm really so– "

He faltered. James found himself staring at the boy. It was like he suddenly had been flung roughly back in time; the boy looked exactly like himself. The same high cheekbones, the nose that ended a bit too soon, the finely formed lips, the hair the same shade of charcoal black (only the boy's was much, much neater and combed to an elegant wave over his forehead), the glasses were sharper, rectangular, but still… And his eyes… they were Lily's! He had been staring into those green, green eyes for the vast majority of his life and it was extremely disconcerting to see them on another. James sucked in a breath, feeling his eyes widen.

Before he could think James had leaped forward and grabbed the boy by the shoulders. "Harry! Good lord, Harry! I can't– I can't believe this! Harry!"

The boy stared at him, astonished. "You are mad! Who is zis 'Arry?"

"It must be! It must! Harry!" James was beyond reasonable thinking as his mind reeled with questions and thoughts that were gone as quickly as they had come, too fast to voice anything.

A girl appeared from nowhere, clutching onto the boy James was so sure was Harry. "Let go! Let go at once, you madman!"

"James! What are you doing!" Lily said, alarmed and just as astonished by the boy's looks.

"Perhaps we should move this conversation elsewhere; there are students waiting, you see…" Dumbledore emerged suddenly to James's right, looking at him pointedly.

He was right; many nearby students and a few teachers were staring at the little scene that was blocking the way to the entrance hall. James flushed and jerked his hands away from the boy as if he had been burned. The teen stepped backwards and scowled fiercely at him. The girl beside him had an identical expression.

"What iz zis? What 'as 'appened!" commanding cries sounded from above as Madame Maxime pushed her way easily through the crowd.

"Ah, just a small misunderstanding, I'm sure, Madame Maxime," Dumbledore reassured her. "Perhaps we should move aside to allow room for everyone… This little antechamber will do well, I'm sure." He pointed to a nearby door leading off from the Great Hall.

The boy began to speak to his headmistress in rapid French, joined occasionally by the girl. The immense woman frowned and turned to Dumbledore. "I want an explanation, Dumbly–dorr! At once!"

"Of course, just hold for a moment and come this way," he said and moved toward the door.

The throng of people about them began to complain loudly at the delay. Madame Maxime nodded shortly and entered swiftly through door with her two pupils following. Both stared at James over their shoulders. Lily was telling Sirius and Remus to go on without them but James could hardly make sense of the words.

Ever since Harry had died, or whatever, James had always been the one to reassure, to comfort. Helping Lily to deal had always been a sort of therapy for James, but it was really no comparison to being able to just let it out and wait for it to fade. As a result, all of his own misery had built up over the years. And the earlier comments and suddenly seeing that boy seemed like a sort of trigger. Oh, those eyes…

Truth be told, James had never truly given up hope that Harry was gone. He had always wondered and a million, infinite speculations on ways that he could have survived formed and crumbled under the crushing weight of society's conviction that Harry was already long gone. Many, many times he thought about asking Lily if she still believed, but the thought of her refusal was more than enough to silence him each time.

"James?" Lily said, pulling his hand into her own. He looked at her as she stared up at him with concern. He shook his head and led the way to the door, Dumbledore lingering behind.

On entering the small chamber, the three already inside glared at him suspiciously. Dumbledore closed the door behind him and moved to the center of the room.

"I'm sure that this matter can be explained of course," the headmaster said looking at Lily and James.

"It 'ad better be!" Madame Maxime said severely. "Your Ministry official just assailed my student!"

"James?" Dumbledore asked, looking at him with faint lines of worry across his brow.

Lily squeezed his hand and said, "Madame, we're very sorry, but you see Harry was the name of the our baby we lost sixteen years ago– "

"We _know_ zat!" the boy exclaimed impatiently. "Everyone 'as 'eard of ze child savior!"

Lily pinked slightly. "Well, yes… But you see…" She suddenly dropped James's hand and reached into a pocket robe, pulling out a slightly rumpled photo. She handed it to the youth. James could see the picture in his mind's eye. It was from their school days, the entire Marauder gang – Sirius, Remus, James… and even Pettigrew. Still young in the photograph, James would look extremely similar to the boy in front of them.

"That's a picture from years ago, when James was still in school and around your age," Lily started, watching the boy avidly as mild surprise registered across his face when he saw the younger James Potter. "I think that James was highly startled when he saw you because you just look – well…"

Madame Maxime took the picture and frowned distinctly as she saw it. Her student looked up at them, shaking his head and scowling.

"But zat iz impossible!" he said angrily. "I am Jean Pole, not 'Arry Potter!"

"Please," James blurted out, "please, who were your parents?"

A cold look passed over the boy's face and suddenly the girl beside him looked strangely frightened. "My faazer was François¹ Pole."

"Your mother…?" Lily almost whispered.

He seemed to struggle with something for a moment. "I do not know 'oo she was."

"But then–" James began.

"What does it matter anyway?" the girl suddenly cried, indignant. "It would 'ave been impossible for your baby to survive ze attack from You-Know-'Oo _and_ zat fire!"

Lily and James flinched.

Stepping in, Dumbledore said, "We do not know for sure that Harry died that night. No one could find traces of a body and Peter Pettigrew never admitted to Harry being killed… There have been many accounts from involved persons that he survived…"

"From ze Death Eaters, you mean!" Madame Maxime stated, incredulous.

"They _were_ under Veritaserum," James protested. "I saw them take it myself!"

"Zey were dark wizards, zey could 'ave found a way around it!" exclaimed the girl.

"That is possible," Dumbledore stated calmly, looking over his half–moon spectacles, "but not very probable."

Turning to the boy, James looked at him with pleading eyes. "There are tests…" He stiffened and glared. "Are you sure that this Pole –"

"Enough!" he practically shouted. "I've 'ad enough of zis – zis tomfoolery!" He stormed out, bristling. The French girl quickly followed after him.

"Professor Dumbly–dorr, I 'ope that I leave you in good faith to guarantee zat anozzer incident like zis does not occur," Madame Maxime said coolly, leaving the small room.

The three remaining stared at each other silently, not knowing what to say.

* * *

¹ François - Pronounced 'Fran_SWAH_' not 'Fran_COYS_'. 

**A/N**: Written over a period of three days, this was sort of exhausting but at the same time enjoyable. I'm pretty sure I won't have the time or patience to update this _extremely_ soon, but it'll get done sooner or later. Hopefully I can spend a lot more time on it when school ends next week. I'll try to get it done at least before this month ends but don't hold your breath on it.

I hope I did well on the accents, it was a bit hard to keep with all of it. I tried to make it as clear as possible when people were speaking in English or French, but it might still be confusing so please tell me if it is. Not a lot of focus on Durmstrang, but there should be quite a bit more of them later on. Ainsley will play a much larger part in the next chapter. Just so you know, the tasks will be a lot more different from the canon. And don't plan on there being much romance.

I know that Dumbledore's explanation about the Tournament was a bit tedious (you've already read it, after all) but there are changes that I made that were important, so I had to put it in.

Cookie to anyone that can tell me where Meri's last name came from. n.n


	2. Oblivion

**We, In Faith**

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter Two**: Oblivion

* * *

The heavy scents of spring wafted lazily over the air, gliding through the occasional breeze that skimmed the surface of the lake, creating whirls and playful eddies. A single boat drifted along the waters with its leisurely pace lulling its two occupants into a tranquil, dreamy state. 

A small boy, slender like the bulrushes, leaned over the side of the shallow-bottomed vessel and stared down into the lake, fascinated as his reflection rippled and danced. The youthful man sitting across from him smiled faintly and watched as the boy boldly slipped a tiny hand into the waters, letting the cool liquid wash over it in a soothing ribbon of silky wetness.

The man looked back down to the pristine notebook on his lap, the open page smooth, creamy, and blank. Pulling out a pencil from the spiral, he absently drove back fair locks of hair that disobediently fell into his eyes. Stark black marks stumbled quickly across the page as the man's hand moved sporadically; he spent most of time glancing at the boy who was still gazing tenderly at the waters.

"Harry, your hat's gone and fallen off again," he said, abruptly noticing this small fact.

The boy looked up, his large, green eyes maintaining an innocent air. "But that hat's so stupid looking."

He chuckled and looked back down at his rough sketch. "You'll burn for sure; you burn so easily… like paper…"

Turning back to the lake, Harry murmured quietly, "Madame Pole gave it to me… she doesn't like me much, does she?"

"Eh? That old hag?" the man muttered. "It's just like her to have such poor tastes… and it doesn't matter whether she likes you or not, Harry."

"But she's your mother…" said the boy uncertainly.

The man snorted. "That doesn't go very far with the Madame. Look at how she treats Lawrence and me! But enough talk of monsters and old biddies. What do you think of this?" He lifted up the finished drawing, presenting it to the small boy with the air of a proud parent.

Harry took it gently from his hands and examined it. His delicate, babyish face seemed strange with such a serious look.

"It's very nice and peaceful," he began, "And the face he's making… it's like love but not really… kind of like when we once went to that big church in Angers and the people were looking at the pictures in the glass and on the walls and the ceiling of that one man and that lady and those other people. Like that." ¹

"Excellent!" the man exclaimed, delighted.

The boy smiled and reached up to give back the sketchbook. The man reverently accepted it and slipped the cover back over, placing it in a bag at his feet. He reached over and clasped the oars firmly.

"What do you say to getting something to eat, Little Bird?" he queried cheerfully.

Harry laughed and answered, "Sounds good, François."

* * *

"Jean, Jean!" 

A hand was gently shaking his shoulder. Jean cracked his eyes open slowly, blurry light and images entering. A pair of glasses were put softly into his hand and he quickly placed them atop the bridge of his nose, looking up. Meri was standing over him, a concerned look in her eyes.

"What time is it?" he asked, shoving himself up into a sitting position, trying to shake the dream from his mind.

Meri glanced down at her watch. "It's six thirty. You should start to get ready; Headmistress wants us to be in her carriage by seven thirty."

Sighing, Jean stepped down from his four-poster bed and walked across a sea of deep, plush carpet to an antique bureau. "Why aren't you in the girls' carriage?"

"I just wanted to make sure you got up early enough," Meri replied in a suspiciously casual tone.

She must still be worried about that scene from last night. Jean scowled. That man… he had no right to call him by that name… And how dare he insult François! Now Meri would be fussing over him all day, absolutely terrified that he might suddenly have a mental breakdown or something alike.

"Why does Headmistress want us up so early?" Jean asked, pulling out simple black robes with a thinner, white under-robe to go underneath.

Meri eased herself up on the downy comforter of Jean's bed. "We have to go put our names in the Goblet together. She said we could have the rest of the day off from lessons."

Jean paused, eyeing Meri in surprise. "No lessons at all?'

"None," she shrugged, "I'm not sure why. But this will probably be the only break we'll get. Except for the champion maybe."

"Maybe," he said dubiously. Knowing Headmistress, she would probably only work the champion even harder at their studies. Jean stepped behind a silk screen and began to undress.

"Um, Jean?" Meri's voice asked tentatively. Here it comes. Jean really didn't know if he had the patience to endure questions right at the moment.

"Yes, Meri?" his voice slipped out, assured and perfectly calm.

"You'll be all right." It was a statement, not a question. He was very grateful she hadn't pressed anything more taxing. It was a bit unexpected, though. Last night he had stormed out of the castle and back into the carriage without a single word or look to Meri who had kept pace with him the entire way. Jean vaguely wondered at which point she went back to her own carriage. She had most likely entered with him and asked one of the other boys to keep an eye on him. He sighed. Meri was too good to him at times.

Jean emerged from behind the screen and grabbed his boots by the full-length mirror. Shoving them on and lacing up the sides quickly, he glanced at Meri from the corner of his eye. She was staring about the room curiously.

All of the rooms in the carriage were nearly the same, with the navy painted walls and gray trimming. The white carpet rolled and smoothly throughout the room, and complimented the silver and gray coverlet and pillows on the bed that would immediately magically neaten itself in the morning and set itself in the evening according to each boy's personal taste. Each room was equipped with two bureaus, two armchairs, a mirror, a silken screen, and a nightstand. You could add anything to more personalize it, if you so desired. Jean had only added two trunks that looked slightly beaten.

"The girls' rooms are exactly alike to the boys'…" Meri said, looking at Jean's trunks a bit distastefully. "Except for the colors; ours are in lavender and green."

"Fascinating." Jean sounded less than enthused. He moved toward the door, looking at Meri pointedly.

She flounced from the bed and scowled as he politely opened the door for her. They stepped into the hallway and turned to the right, making for the bathroom. "You know," Meri began haughtily, "for someone who is supposedly so terribly unconcerned about looks and such, you spend an extremely large amount of time on your hair, Monsieur Jean Pole."

Jean let a slow grin form on his face. "That, my dear, is simply because my hair is the _only_ thing I need to worry about." Their feet made faint thunking sounds as they walked across the immense tiled floor of the boy's restroom. "The rest," Jean said, leaning against a marble counter and peering at himself in the mirror, "comes naturally."

"You cocky bastard!" Meri cried in mock outrage. "One wants a whip for such vanity!"

"Why, Meri," Jean smirked, grabbing a gel from the countertop, "I had no idea you had such interests!"

"Oh! Someone call the village elders; he's being terribly lewd!" she exclaimed, laughing.

"Really, could you two please be _any_ louder?"

Jean looked up and saw in the mirror a boy with an irritated look leaning in the doorway. He had a groggy look about his eyes and his mass of blindingly white hair with black streaks was tousled in that 'just out of bed' look.

Meri immediately pounced. "Orlando, darling! I haven't seen you in _ages_!" She sneaked a single, slim hand into the crook of his arm.

He looked down at her indifferently and yawned. "You saw me last night."

Jean rolled his eyes and knew that Meri was fighting a futile fight. She had been spending years trying to bag Orlando Berenger, but he always brushed her off. This was the hopeless and pitiful plight of many a girl at Beauxbatons and beyond. Jean wasn't really sure what attracted them to Orlando; as far as guys go, he was a bit dull. He never spoke more than necessary and was always a tad sullen and cross. But that was until you gave him a shot of whiskey, and heaven save you from the white and black devil that was Orlando Berenger. Maybe that was the appeal – a sort of untouchable enigma.

Sidling up to the mirror, Orlando disregarded Meri as she clung to his arm and continued to try to tempt him into any sort of conversation. Her parted his bangs and ran his fingers quickly over his scalp, parting the hair so that his roots where visible.

"Damn, my roots are showing," Orlando grimaced and casually pried Meri off his forearm.

Jean glanced over at him, still grooming his own hair meticulously. "All right, Berenger?"

"Yeah, you?" he said carelessly, searching for his hair dye through the mass of gels and combs. That was another thing about Orlando he didn't really understand – why he was so set on keeping his hair in such ridiculous colors.

"I'm okay."

Meri glared at Jean. He had just managed to make as much of a discussion as could be had with the other boy. Jean doubted whether he would even speak again that day. He shrugged at her over Orlando's head.

"Well, once you're finished up, _Jean_, you should meet me in Headmistress's carriage," Meri said coolly. "You too, Orlando," she added sweetly. Giving Jean a last glare, she stalked away, flinging her hair back disdainfully.

Jean shook his head. By the time he finished and reached the huge coach, Meri would have already long forgotten her little imagined snub and be perfectly friendly. She was constantly getting into little squabbles and instantly forgetting them. Most people would be annoyed to no end with this, but Jean merely thought it amusing and charmingly quaint.

Finally, his hair straightened and smoothed to his satisfaction, Jean capped his various gels and replaced his wand in his sleeve (yes, he actually did have resort to magic on particularly bad hair days). He gave a quick 'farewell' to Orlando, who merely grunted in reply, and slipped out the door.

The short walk across the dew soaked grass was uneventful but for his robes becoming a bit damp at the edges, much to Jean's displeasure, but the day was brisk and cool. The sun was breaking through pink-tinged clouds to shine weakly across Hogwarts grounds and the wind was nearly nonexistent.

Jean, reaching Headmistress's carriage, found that the stairway was already pulled down. He climbed up swiftly and walked through the exquisitely decorated entrance hall into a large, warm chamber. There were many plush, velvety armchairs scattered around a roaring fire. Several of the chairs were filled with his classmates; it seemed he and Orlando had been the only ones missing.

Seeing Meri at a little octagonal table, he wandered near and sat down in a purple winged-back chair. Meri turned to him with a good-humored grin. "Jean! You wouldn't _believe_ what Brie just told us!"

Around the table there were two other girls and one other boy. One girl, Brie Brigham, was a notorious gossip and, as a result, one of Meri's greatest allies. Brie looked simply enthralled to have all the attention centered upon her and was nervously curling a single lock of blonde hair through her fingers. Brigette Brigham was Brie's twin and the complete opposite of her sister, extremely self-assured and avoided the spotlight as much as possible. Both were brilliant students. However, it was a common fact that they had only been selected as possible candidates for the Beauxbatons champion because of their book learning.

Pierce Laramie was the sort of fellow whom you either adored or abhorred. He was constantly cheerful and friendly, almost to the point of stupidity. It was quite easy to deceive him, but if caught, he'd forgive you in an instant. Any manipulative person with a mind to could get Pierce to do practically anything. Jean personally hated him.

"And what was that?" Jean asked. Truthfully, he wasn't really all that interested in anything that Brie would have to say. But just for cordiality's sake…

The blonde gave a nasal giggle and tittered excitedly. "Oh! Well, you see, that is, Headmistress wanted to send a message down to Hogwarts, and her owl, you know the one, is still out somewhere, so, so you see, she asked me to run down there, and well…" She paused as if suddenly forgetting where she was and what she was doing. Jean had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

"Go on, dear!" encouraged Meri.

"Oh yes!" exclaimed Brie, a tad too loudly. "Well, I was down in that icky little entrance hall of theirs and, you know, they had the goblet set up on this most horrid little stool, it's quite plain really. There were a bunch of this little Hogwarts students around and a couple of them tried to cross the Age Line! Oh, they were most obviously underage, of course, and they were immediately flung back, and, and, and…"

Impatient, Jean practically snapped, "Yes?"

"They started growing _beards_!" she laughed raucously.

Meri laughed as well, if a bit less irritatingly. Brigette simply looked at her sister with something like repugnance and Pierce seemed uncomfortable.

"They must have tried to take an Aging Potion," commented Jean, looking bored. "Stupid little idiots. They should have realized Dumbledore would have thought of that." He noticed that Orlando had somehow entered without anyone noticing and was slouched in a chair across the room.

"Oh don't be so hard on them!" Meri cried. "They at least gave us a laugh!"

"Speak for yourself," muttered Brigette quietly.

Pierce gulped nervously and gave an uncertain smile. "But they were all right, weren't they?"

"Who was all right?" Brie asked, looking confused.

"The Hogwarts students…" he trailed off.

"Oh." She looked away in disinterest. "I've no idea! I mean, I didn't really stay to look."

"Oh, who cares!" Meri announced irritably. "It's like Jean said – they're just stupid little idiots." She turned to Jean again. "I was meaning to ask you; yesterday, at the Welcoming Feast, why in the world would you let slip that the judge would be an 'it'?"

He looked back at her, a tad surprised. "I thought you would have figured it out yourself. I was trying to test them; I knew, of course, that that Weatherby or whatever wouldn't have caught it, but I had thought that at least that Granger girl would have. She had the air of an utter bookworm, but it seems she has little practical shrewdness. You see that often in those studious types." He was gazing slightly at the Brigham sisters as he said this.

From across the table, Brigette flushed from the subtle insult while Brie laughed shrilly in a sad attempt to brown-nose.

Abruptly a step was heard on the grand staircase to the right of the room leading upwards. Immediately all conversation ceased and the students jumped to their feet, heads turned to the stairs. Madame Maxime was regally, slowly descending, her mother-of-pearl silks rustling pleasantly. Her liquid black eyes ran over her pupils critically. She paused at the last step.

"Good morning, students," she formally said at last.

All twelve of the wizard teens answered as one, "Good morning, Headmistress." Each bowed or curtsied respectively. They remained standing. It was a standard ceremony, and one they were all very well used to.

She stepped down from the staircase and moved gracefully despite her great bulk. She halted in the middle of the room, with everyone's eyes trained on her. "You may sit." Instantly, they all sat back down as one body.

"Today," Headmistress began, "is the beginning of a new revolution for our grand academy of Beauxbatons. For the last few centuries we have grown and cultivated ourselves into one of the best educational institutes in greater Europe. And now, we have the chance to show the world our prowess in producing the finest witches and wizards in this modern era. I trust that whomever is chosen to become an example of this accomplished breed will not fail in their honorable duty of leading the way to great glory."

Her speech rang throughout the chamber and as soon as her intoning ended, the students all clapped respectfully. Headmistress waved her hand and their applause immediately ceased. She waved her great, long wand and in front of each student appeared a crisp sheet of parchment and a quill.

"Now, as Professor Dumbledore mentioned last night, you must all write down your name and school. We shall – "

* * *

"Anyone you think vill be an actual problem?" 

Cool and indifferent gray eyes seemed to search the girl in front of them. Monika Kurkov gazed back impassively.

This Draco Malfoy certainly was an enigma. He had an arrogant air about him, a certain scorn for anyone that entered his line of vision. The boy was aloof and giving overtly harsh criticism seemed his only way of being social. But he also seemed smart enough to figure out when something was to his advantage. Truthfully, Monika couldn't give a damn what he thought of her or how he acted as long as he gave her reason to ignore his superfluous slander. And that reason was any info she could squeeze out of himabout the Hogwarts students.

"Well," Malfoy finally began, "no need to lose any sleep over the Gryffindors; they're all just a bunch idiots that couldn't charm their way out of a paper bag. Su Li from Ravenclaw might be a problem." The blonde pointed out a thin Chinese girl at the table bedecked in blue and copper. "She may seem like a bimbo, but she's vicious and clever. 'Dumb like a fox' you might say. And the Hufflepuff Ernie Macmillan is a prat with an over-inflated opinion of himself, but he can pack a punch in a tight situation. And in Slytherin…" He paused, his eyes glinting.

"Vell?" Monika glared at the other Durmstrang student who had spoken beside her. Ivan Polkoloff flinched slightly, his dark, oily hair limply swinging. She despised Polkoloff. He was constantly simpering and sucking up, but he was intelligent under his entire disgustingly greasy demeanor. He made a very useful spy and informant, but Monika had always to be cautious on what info she gave to him; she knew a rat when she saw one.

"_Well_," said Malfoy, studying Polkoloff with distaste, "in Slytherin, Blaise Zabbini might be chosen," He directed their gazes to wraith-like figure further down the table with pale, translucent eyes and blue-black hair. "But, don't count on it. He's powerful, but doesn't show it a lot; I'm not even sure he'll put his name in the Goblet. Lacking a bit in school spirit. Or any sort of spirit at all."

Monika scrutinized the look Malfoy was giving her now. He seemed expectant, almost as if he were testing her. She grinned; if he thought she was going to beat around the bush with fancy words, he had another thing coming.

"And vot about you, Mister Malfoy?" she queried, almost impertinently.

He didn't seem surprised. Either that, or he was very good at hiding it. "I, on the other hand, most certainly did place my name in the Goblet. And I assure you; I can be quite competitive." His eyes stared at her challengingly. She gazed back, practically bristling.

"Excuse me." A voice, heavy with a French accent, interrupted the staring contest.

Three teens, obviously Beauxbatons students from their silken robes and lordly manner, were hovering near the Slytherin table. The dark, bespectacled boy that had spoken was looking at Malfoy and Monika with a particularly studious air.

"I was wondering if we might…" he trailed off politely.

Malfoy slid down the wooden bench courteously. "Of course, make yourself _comfortable_." His silver eyes glanced with something like amusement at one member of the small group. Monika suddenly recognized her as the girl who had laughed so scornfully in Dumbledore's speech last night. The girl flushed angrily and sat as far away from Malfoy as she could, on the other side next to Monika herself.

"Draco Malfoy," he introduced himself simply, holding a hand out to the boy who had sat beside him.

He accepted it, shaking briefly. "Jean Pole."

The other boy beside Pole reached around to Malfoy with a cocky grin, saying, "Jacques Lealan."

Malfoy gave him a bit of an arrogant glare before turning to the girl beside Monika. "I'm sorry, Madame, but I don't think I caught your name?"

"Zat is because I nevair gave it," she responded imperiously, much to Monika's amusement. "I am Mariette Clehedault."

"A pleasure." Malfoy said rather icily. The girl flushed again and said nothing, looking for the entire world as if she wanted to do something quite different.

Pole turned to Monika with an apologetic air. "And you, miss?"

"Monika Kurkov. This," she gestured carelessly to Polkoloff, "is Ivan Polkoloff."

The slightly strained introductions over, the Beauxbatons students began to pile the plates set in front of them with the food scattered across the table. The Clehedault girl constantly pursed her lips each time she tried to select something. Monika wondered if any of these pampered little brats were really worth worrying over. Certainly they wouldn't stand a chance against any of the Durmstrang students, all of whom have already had extensive experience in the fields that they would tried under in the tournament.

Taking a crumpet from a platter, the fair headed Lealan remarked amicably, "So, I take it zat Durmstrang and 'Ogwarts 'ave already put zeir names in ze Goblet?"

"Ve haff," Monika replied, studying the boy. "Earlier this morning, in fact."

"Most of the Hogwarts students who planned on entering have, too," added Malfoy indifferently.

Lealan grinned. "We just came from putting our names in. Zair was no need for ze ozzers to bozzer, zough; since, after all, it will be me chosen, of course."

Clehedault sniffed imperiously over her pumpkin juice. "I wouldn't count on it, Jacques. Or did you nevair receive ze exam results we took to 'ave a chance to entair zis competition?"

"I got in didn't, I!" he protested, reddening.

"Barely." Pole said, utterly unperturbed, yet clearly amused.

"But you know, since there around forty seventh years in Hogwarts, while Beauxbatons and Durmstrang only brought twelve each, you will probably be at a… disadvantage…" Malofy's voice cut through like an icy javelin.

Pole's vibrant emerald eyes seemed unemotional as he turned easily to the Slytherin. "Well, at least we," he put a slight emphasis here, "'ave brought our finest… so I do not believe zat zair will be a problem…"

Monika was no great mind, but even she was not lost on the thinly veiled insults. And, evidently, so were the other two Beauxbatons students who seemed to not have quite as much control as this Pole. They seemed to be torn between peacefully eating away at their breakfast and jumping Malfoy right then and there.

"Too true." The blonde smiled a bit unpleasantly. "By the way, you are not of the prestigious Pole family in France, are you? Twentieth generation pureblood, I think it was…"

Here, Pole's eyes flared noticeably. "Yes, I am…"

"Strange, I've never heard of a _Jean_ Pole," continued Malfoy innocently, a smirk creeping about his sharp features. "But I did hear that the middle son of Madame Annette Pole had recently been raising a child… but I had been sure that his wife died long before…" He paused, as if he suddenly realized something. Monika had to admit; if nothing, Malfoy was an excellent actor.

"Forgive me; I was prying…" he apathetically apologized.

"What iz zair to forgive?" Pole replied, stiff and frosty. "After all, your faazer – forgive me, your faazer _is_ Lucius Malfoy, is he not? Well, your faazer 'as not come into contact wiz any of ze Poles since zat… _messy_ incident sixteen year ago… Naturally, you'd be curious…"

It was now Malfoy's turn to glare at the other. Eyes darting interestedly between the two, Monika suspected that Pole was referring to Lucius Malfoy's trial as a Death Eater. He had been pardoned, of course, but there were always rumors… Not that such rumors mattered much in Durmstrang where every other student had an ex- Death Eater for a parent and the Dark Arts were freely taught.

"Ze Malfoy family… it iz vairy _distinguished_…" the dusky French teen added as if it were an afterthought.

The blonde pinked furiously but muttered grudgingly, "Thank you… it's really too kind of you…" Suits the little arse right for being such a prat. Monika felt herself gaining quite a bit of respect for this Jean Pole.

"But speaking of distinguished families…" Recovering from his rebuke, Malfoy looked over at the Clehedault girl who was apparently trying not to gag at the sight of Lealan simply gorging himself on sausage links. "I've also heard a little about the Clehedaults…"

She gazed back him warily. "Iz zat so?"

"Yes," he said, smiling slyly, "they've become quite wealthy in the last century, haven't they? Extremely enterprising; quite admirable really."

"Thank you…" Clehedault murmured uneasily.

"But of course, not much _good blood_ among them…" Malfoy added casually, as if remarking harmlessly on the weather.

The three Beauxbatons students rose to their feet, with varying degrees of anger across their faces. However, Pole seemed still able to keep a hold on his temper as he announced politely, "I believe it would be best if we left now."

"Well, if you really must…" Malfoy said innocently, looking as if he were entirely bewildered by their sudden change of mood. He rose to his feet, more calmly than had the other three. "But before you go, I must really kiss your hand, Miss Clehedault; it quite escaped me before…"

He reached out for her hand, which she offered with cold eyes. Malfoy bowed slightly and raised the thin knuckles to his lips, but suddenly paused.

"Or perhaps not." He dropped the hand as if it were something smelly he had picked up from the gutter. ²

Instantly, the three grew pale and positively livid.

Lealan whipped his wand out menacingly. "I ought to curse you zis moment, sir!"

"'Oh **_dare_ **you!" whispered Clehedault dangerously, her eyes consumed with fury.

Enraged, Pole asserted, "Sir! I insist you apologize _zis instant_!"

Malfoy sneered at them arrogantly. "For what? It is not improper to refuse to kiss the hand of one that is not an _equal_."

"Why you filthy **_Death Eater cur_**!" Clehedault shrieked. And with that, she promptly picked up a glass of juice near her hand and flung it right into the Slytherin's smirking face.

Through his now sopping and orange locks, Malfoy stared at the girl with disbelieving eyes. "You little b-"

"What in the world is going on here!"

They all looked up to see a severe woman hurrying forward with her black eyes glinting at them threateningly through square spectacles.

"We were just leaving, Madame," Pole said quickly, grabbing Clehedault's arm to gently lead her away as Lealan followed.

Monika decided to take advantage of their departure so as not to be caught up in the rather formidable looking woman's wrath. She slipped away quietly from the Slytherin table, gesturing for Polkoloff to follow. Malfoy was left dripping within the glare of his professor.

* * *

Ainsley was about to burst from impatience. Half an hour of waiting and still no Snape! He leaned over the balcony railing, peering down at the Great Hall doors below. Pitching back on the balls of his feet, he glanced suspiciously at the small, mousy boy on the other side of a cauldron balanced precariously on the banister beside him. 

"Are you _sure_ that Snape hasn't come out yet?" he asked rather sharply.

Dennis Creevey looked up at him nervously. "Yeah, that's what Oleander said…"

"Oh, I didn't know she was the one that told you…"

"Yup, she mentioned it when we were coming out of the infirmary."

Ainsley scowled faintly. The entire fiasco with the Aging Potion had been an utter failure. And now he, Dennis, and Stewert Ackerly all had detentions _and_ were the complete laughingstocks of the entire school. But at least now they would go out with a bang. Ainsley didn't care that Stewert had insisted the now cooled leftovers of their Aging Potion wouldn't work; he wanted to see Snape with a beard to compensate for lost Gryffindor points.

"Oh! Oh! I think that's him!" Dennis suddenly called, leaning over the railing.

Quickly, Ainsley began to tip the cauldron slightly. "You sure?"

He cried back excitedly, "Yeah, yeah! Can't miss that greasy hair anywhere!"

Holding the bottom so it wouldn't completely fall over, Ainsley let the slippery, gray liquid rain down upon the unsuspecting victims below. Instantly, indignant cries, both male and female, rose up. None of them were Snape's. The two young Gryffindors stared at each other, eyes wide.

"Uh-oh." Dennis's voice was even more high-pitched than usual.

"RUN!" cried Ainsley.

However, neither boy had the chance to do so as they both quite suddenly found themselves hanging upside down in the air. Ainsley and Dennis squirmed and thrashed wildly but it only made the invisible grasps upon their ankles grip even tighter. They were being rapidly lowered through the air until they found themselves staring into wrathful eyes, the remnants of their Aging Potion dribbling from dark, curly locks.

Ainsley and Dennis cried out in pain as their ears were clutched tightly, bringing them even closer to this vengeful figure who was now spitting at them in harassed, furious snatches of English mixed with French.

"We're sorry! We're sorry, we're sorry, we're sorry!" they exclaimed in chorus, frightened by this snarling she-demon and practically whimpering in pain from their ears.

And then they were abruptly dropped unceremoniously to the ground, the hands grasping their ears disappearing. Dazed and bruised, Ainsley and Dennis looked up to see several formidable persons looming over them.

The first, and by far the most alarming (though this was probably due to their recent experience), was a furiously glaring French girl who seemed to be gritting her teeth to keep from lashing out at them again. The boy beside her was completely dry but still seemed just as angry as the other. The last two were their professors – Black and Lupin.

Ainsley, ever the son of a Marauder, felt a bit of relief at the sight of his two almost-uncles; he tried desperately to keep it from showing, though. They most have noticed anyway, because their already deep-set frowns grew even more pronounced.

"Mister Potter, Mister Creevey, I hope you have a good explanation for pouring cold Aging Potion over Hogwarts's _guests_?" Lupin asked, his voice clipped. The two on the floor suddenly noticed a soaked, slimy and greasy Durmstrang student behind Lupin. His hair would have made Snape proud. Ainsley silently cursed Dennis for making that mistake.

He made a quick decision to try and see how great his luck would be today. "We were trying to get Snape…?" Ainsley grinned uncertainly.

Black's face twitched, a grin struggling to form itself and a roar of laughter trying to burst forth. Lupin continued to frown, however, but there was faint glimmer of amusement about his eyes.

"It's _Professor_ Snape, Ainsley, and that doesn't excuse from you completely drenching these two," Lupin lectured; though his tone wasn't as strict. "Now get up and apologize. And twenty-five points from Gryffindor."

Ainsley and Dennis resisted the urge to groan and picked themselves up from the floor. They mumbled faint apologies, which the girl accepted with a huffy glare and the boy with a scornful sneer. The foreign students stalked away angrily, muttering to each other in their respective languages. Lupin and Black also made to leave.

"Oh, and Ainsley," Black called over his shoulder, "next time remember that Snape is the only one that makes his robes flutter and whoosh, you know – OW! Reeemus!"

* * *

The swaying shivers of the tiny flames burning from the wax of the hundreds upon hundreds of floating candles danced through the excited evening air inside the Great Hall. The stars flung against the deep velvet sky above sparkled down cheerfully on the Halloween Feast, contrary to Lily Potter's current mood. Her eyes were sweeping over the Ravenclaw table every now and then, searching for a head of smooth black hair and a pair of vibrant green eyes. She could tell that James was doing the same. 

James and she had not gotten much sleep last night. They had flooed back home and changed in silence until they confronted each other in the bedroom. A lengthy discussion ensued: protests against the insanity of Harry actually being alive, hopes risen because of those tiny details, and always, always they came back to nothing but uncertainty. They both knew that neither would be able to rest until they could know for sure the absolute truth that this boy was not or was their son. The only was this could be found out was if they could get him and his guardian (whoever it was) to agree to a test that would involve a complicated potion and a sample of essence from the boy. From the explosive reaction last night from the very suggestion of such a test, Lily and James highly doubted whether he would ever agree.

This morning they had received a fire-call from Sirius and the whole situation had to be explained again. Their friend had consulted with Remus and they both agreed that they should try to wait it out and build up the trust between themselves and this boy until he would be willing at least agree to the test. Sirius and Remus also added that they would try to have a go at it as well, being that they would be at the school more often than Lily and James.

Lily had been infinitely grateful for Remus's last words. "Lily, James, you should just try and be patient. Remember that this boy has grown up with different people, in a different environment. He'll resist for a while, I'm sure, but if you can show him how much you care, he'll come around. And when the day comes and he is your son, he'll be grateful to finally know the truth. And if he isn't… then he'll understand and be sympathetic if he was at least willing to go to such a distance for you."

"… so then that little French girl just absolutely walloped them; boxed their ears, she did!" Sirius was laughing down the table beside James.

"You're exaggerating, Sirius," Remus commented though he laughed too, "she only gave them a sharp tug on the ears."

"Still, I think I should have a talk with Ainsley," said James, looking quite indignant.

Lily perked her ears; was James finally taking an actual role in their son's discipline?

"After all, getting beaten by a girl!"

She sighed and rolled her eyes in exasperation. She should've known better.

"Oh look, none of the students are eating…" Lily said, dismayed.

James's eyes roved over the student body as well. "Of course they aren't. Who could eat when the Champions are about to be announced?"

"Starving themselves isn't about to make it happen any sooner."

"You're starting to sound like Molly Weasley, Lily, dear!" Sirius exclaimed.

"Well – "

But Lily was cut off as Dumbledore abruptly rose to his feet and silence pervaded throughout the Great Hall. The golden plates were wiped clean, and Madame Maxime, on Lily's left, was tensely staring at her standing colleague. Dumbledore smiled warmly at the student body with the Goblet of Fire placed in front of him crackled softly with its vivid blue-white glow washed over the headmaster.

"The Goblet is nearly ready to make its decision," Dumbledore said. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to kindly come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber" – he indicated the door behind which Lily and James had gone just the other evening – "where they will be receiving their first instructions."

He pulled out his wand and gave a great arching wave with it; at once, all the candles but for those inside the carved pumpkins where extinguished. The Hall was plunged into semi-darkness, shadows flinging themselves about in a wild dance with the night and odd glimpses of star-shine. The Goblet of Fire now burned more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames almost painful to the eyes. Everyone watched, breaths caught and knotted… Waiting, trickles of sweat beading against the brow… A few kept checking wristwatches…

The flames within the Goblet turned suddenly scarlet. Sparks began to dart from it. Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttering drunkenly out of it – the whole chamber gasped.

Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm's length, so that he could read it by firelight, which had turned back into its original blue-white.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he read his voice clear and strong, "will be Monika Kurkov!"

Polite, but enthusiastic applause swept through the Hall, the loudest come from the Slytherin table, where most of the Durmstrang school had situated themselves. However, as soon as the name had been called, a tall, handsome young girl rose from the Ravenclaw table and approached the staff table with proud confident steps. Her long, thin, and frigidly pale hair whipped about her as she turned abruptly and entered into the next room.

As Karkaroff, on the other side of Dumbledore, leapt up to boom, "Good show, Monika!" Lily turned to James and whispered, "Why was she over at the Ravenclaws'? The rest of Durmstrang were at the Slytherin table…" James shrugged at her silently.

The cheers and chatter died down and again everyone's attentions were focused upon the Goblet. Seconds later it flared up in red sparks again. A second piece of parchment shot out, propelled on by the flames.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," Dumbledore's voice rang out, "is Jean Pole!"

"James!" Lily hissed excitedly to her husband as the dark, slender boy stood up calmly. The girl from last night too jumped up and eagerly kissed him on the cheeks and hugged the boy fiercely.

"I know, I know!" he hissed back with just as much enthusiasm.

Jean swept up to the table, briefly caught Lily's eye, but looked away again quickly. She couldn't help but be a bit put out by this, but was also too excited for him to mind all that much. As he entered into the next chamber, Lily began to scold herself; she knew nothing yet! She couldn't let herself raise her hopes too high just yet.

And silence fell again, surging through the sea of students like an infectious disease. This was what most of them had been waiting for – the person who would surely lead Hogwarts sheer glory. The stillness was stiff with excitement; you could nearly taste the marvelous tang of it all.

And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third, final piece of parchment.

"The Hogwarts Champion," he called, "is Draco Malfoy!"

Every one of the Slytherins roared to their feet, nearly screaming in ecstasy. Most Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws did the same, caught up in the spirit of school unity. The Gryffindors, however, were not nearly as pleased. The majority applauded out of politeness, but some, like Ronald Weasley, groaned loudly in despair or even heckled the proud blonde as he sauntered up to the staff table and entered the next chamber with an elegant flourish.

"Excellent, simply excellent!" called Dumbledore happily as at last the tumult died down. "Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count on all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real – "

But Dumbledore suddenly ceased speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him.

The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment.

Automatically, mechanically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a bony hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. Lily didn't know why, but she abruptly felt the bile rising in her throat. Something wasn't right. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out –

"_Ainsley Potter_."

* * *

**¹** - The church Harry is referring to is the Saint-Maurice in Angers in the county of Anjou in France. (See? I did a bit of research! Though not too terribly much, I'll admit.) I chose this one mainly because of its architecture which is sort-of a play on the name 'Pole' and almost-kinda hints at why I chose that particular name. Doesn't make much sense now, but it'll be explained later… 

**²** - This scene would be hard to understand if you aren't a total nerd about these kinds of things like me. xD Well, basically, kissing someone's knuckles/hand was a sign of extreme respect. You would only do it though for someone at your standing or higher. For example, a duke would _never_ kiss a peasant's hand, but would practically throw himself at the chance to kiss a king's hand. Refusing to allow your hand to be kissed, or vise-versa, was a very, very bad insult.

I imagine that in the modern, yet classical, education of Beauxbatons you would only see men kissing the hands of women (which is the general case nowadays, anyway) and refusing to do this for a girl would be like a slap in the face… or more likely calling her very promiscuous or bad-blooded. Sort of like the whole 'mudblood' thing, but not necessarily referring to muggle blood.

* * *

**A/N**: I updated a lot sooner than I had expected; a bit proud of myself, you know? Sorry about that cliffhanger, but really, that's the only placeI could have cut off the chapter. And, before you have a go at me about the whole 'Barty Crouch' thing, I'll tell you straight out that he wasn't at the Quidditch World Cup. I don't think that the senior Crouch would be quite sane right now if had (the junior Crouch'd have stolen a wand from someone else, I'm sure). Junior Crouch wasn't even taken out of Azkaban. And I know that it doesn't really make all that much sense now (I mean, why would anyone want poor, sweet, innocent Ainsley dead?) but it will. 

Thank you for all my reviews – they're sorta what kept contributing to my continuing will to write and all that. And no, sorry, the name's unchangeable. I actually did choose Jean Pole because of the other 'Jean-Paul', among other things, but you'll see why.

And does anyone know any good Bulgarian names? I've been trying to improv with Russian ones (without the paternal middle names, because I don't really know if Bulgarians do that) because I only really know a lot of names from that certain part of the world like that – from Russia. It comes with being in love with Russian literature; I'd marry it if I could. Which is weird to think about, because, really, what would our kids look like?

You know you've been up too long when you're dreaming about proposing to a genre of literature…


	3. Expectation

**We, In Faith**

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter Three**: Expectation

* * *

Ainsley Potter was thunderstruck. He sat there, staring up at his headmaster. Surely he must have heard wrong! Everyone, _everyone_ knew that this was impossible; his ridiculous failure to put his name in the Goblet of Fire just this morning proved that. 

His classmates were staring at him, riveted. An angry, wasp-like murmur rose from the students around him. Some were even standing up in their seats to get a better look at him; Ainsley could do nothing but sit frozen to the spot, as if time had stopped.

Up at the staff table, Professor McGonagall had stood up and swept past Bagman and Karkaroff to mutter urgently in Professor Dumbledore's ear. He bent his head to her, frowning slightly, but never taking his eyes off Ainsley. His parents were looking at him with disbelief, faintly pale with shock.

In a dazed air, he turned to Dennis. Beyond him, the entire Gryffindor table was watching him, openmouthed.

"I didn't put my name in," Ainsley said, disconcerted. "You were there… You know I didn't."

Dennis stared back, bug-eyed and blank.

At the top table, Professor Dumbledore straightened up, nodding to McGonagall.

"Ainsley Potter!" he again called. "Ainsley! Up here, if you please!"

Beside him, Ginny Weasley gave Ainsley a slight push. "Go on…" she whispered.

Ainsley got to his feet, stumbling slightly on the hem of his robe. The gap between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables seemed cramped with the stares that both Houses were giving him. I n contrast, the walk to the staff table seemed interminable, unending. He could feel hundreds upon hundreds of eyes trained on him, burning through his clothes, his flesh, his bones. The waspish buzzing grew louder and louder. After what seemed like centuries, he was in front of Dumbledore, feeling the stares of all the teachers upon him.

"Well… through the door, Ainsley," said Dumbledore. He was not smiling.

Ainsley moved along the teachers' table. His uncles and parents were seated right at the end. There were no warm smiles or goofy grins. No stupid jokes or teasing. They all looked completely astonished and stared at Ainsley as he passed just like everyone else. Ainsley exited the Great Hall and found himself in a smaller room, lined with paintings of wizards and witches. A jaunty fire was roaring in the hearth opposite him.

The faces in the portraits turned to gaze down at him as he entered. He saw a wrinkly old biddy flit out of the frame of her picture and into the one next to it, which contained a wizard that bore a striking resemblance to a walrus. The wizened witch started to whisper in his ear.

Draco Malfoy, Jean Pole, and Monika Kurkov were ranged around the fire. They looked eerily impressive, silhouetted against the dancing firelight. Malfoy was leaning casually against the mantelpiece, ignoring the other two. Jean Pole was standing with his arm crossed, glancing at Malfoy every now and then out of the corner of his eye. Monika Kurkov looked around when Ainsley entered and impatiently blew thin strands of pale hair out of her eyes.

"Vhat is it?" she said. "Do they vant us back in the Hall?"

She thought he was delivering a message. Ainsley didn't know how to explain what had just happened. And despite the shock of his name being chosen out of the Goblet, he could feel a flutter of excitement in his stomach. He, Ainsley Harry Potter, would be competing in the Triwizard Tournament. He could almost see his name engraved in a huge, shining gold trophy. If he won, that is. Ainsley was suddenly struck with how very much taller the other champions were than he was.

There was a sound of scurrying feet behind him, and Ludo Bagman entered the room. He took Ainsley by the arm and led him forward.

"Extraordinary!" he muttered, squeezing Ainsley's arm. "Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen… lady," he added, approaching the fireside and addressing the other three. "May I introduce – incredible though it may seem – the _fourth_ Triwizard champion?"

Malfoy straightened up. His sharp features darkened angrily as he surveyed Ainsley. Kurkov looked nonplussed. She scowled from Bagman to Ainsley and back as though sure she must have misunderstood. Pole glanced at Bagman with a raised eyebrow. "If zis is a joke, it is not vairy funny…"

"Joke?" Bagman repeated, bewildered. "Oh, no, not at all! Ainsley's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!"

A dark shadow passed across Pole's face. Kurkov was still glowering at Bagman and Ainsley. Malfoy sneered contemptuously.

"There certainly must be a mistake, then," he coldly scoffed to Bagman. "This little brat cannot compete with us."

"I'm not – " Ainsley started angrily.

"Well… it is amazing," interrupted Bagman, rubbing his smooth chin and smiling down at Ainsley. "But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name's come out of the goblet… I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage… It's down in the rules, you're obliged… Ainsley will just have to do the best he – "

Behind them the door opened again, and a large group of people came in: Dumbledore, followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, McGonagall, Snape, his Mum and Dad, and Remus. Ainsley could hear the babble of hundreds of students on the other side of the wall, before McGonagall closed the door sharply.

Pole strode up to Madame Maxime and bowed quickly before saying, "'Eadmistress, zey are saying sat zis little boy is to compete also!"

Ainsley could feel a ripple of anger rising up inside him. _Little Boy?_ "Excuse – "

But a firm grip on his shoulder stopped him. Looking up, Ainsley saw his father shaking his head while beside him Mum was pursing her lips. She looked angry, frightened, and confused all at the same time. Remus slipped up beside them and gave Ainsley a similar look.

Madame Maxime had drawn herself up to her full, and considerable, height. The top of her handsome head brushed the candle-filled chandelier, and her gigantic black-satin bosom swelled.

"What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbley-dorr?" she said imperiously.

"I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore," said Karkaroff. He was wearing a steely smile, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. "_Two_ Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions – or have I not read the rules carefully enough?"

He gave a short and nasty laugh.

"_C'est impossible_," said Madame Maxime. "'Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions. It is unjust."

"We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore," said Karkaroff, his steely smile still in place though his eyes were colder than ever. "Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought a wider selection of candidates from our own schools."

"It's no one's fault but Potter's Karkaroff," said Snape softly. His black eyes were alight with malice. "Don't go blaming Dumbledore for Potter's determination to break the rules. He has been crossing lines ever sine he arrived here; just like – "

"Now see here, Severus!" Dad suddenly exclaimed, angry. The grip on Ainsley's shoulder tightened.

"Ainsley certainly isn't perfect, but I know – "

"Thank you, James, Severus," interrupted Dumbledore firmly, giving both a warning glance. Dad went quiet but still glared at Snape.

Professor Dumbledore was now looking down at Ainsley, who looked right back at him, trying to discern the expression of the eyes behind the half-moon spectacles.

"Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Ainsley?" he asked calmly.

"No! I couldn't even get near it – "

"You see? Everyone heard of his little escapade from this morning – " Snape announced, his black eyes glinting malevolently.

Ainsley glowered at him furiously. "But I got flung back!"

"A clever ploy to delude others into thinking you _could_ not have put your name in!" Snape retorted furiously.

"'E is right, of course!" Madame Maxime exclaimed. "I 'ad 'eard about zat, too!"

"Please, please!" Dumbledore said over the angry murmurs, "Ladies and Gentlemen, please allow me to question the boy fully. _Then_ give your comments, if you will!"

The noise died down, but the suspicious and irritated looks were still directed at Ainsley.

"Ainsley," said Dumbledore, peering once more at him, "did you ask an older student to put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"

"_No_!" answered Ainsley vehemently. He felt slightly offended at this last question; Ainsley always made it a rule to do things on his own and to act out from his own volition, not anyone else's.

"Ah, but of course 'e is lying!" cried Madame Maxime. Snape was now shaking his head, his lip curling.

"Excuse me!" Mum said furiously. "But my son is not a liar!"

"And that's another thing!" Karkaroff suddenly interjected. "How do we know that _they_" – he gestured to Ainsley's parents – "didn't help the boy? After all, they knew every single detail about the Tournament beforehand!"

"Professor Karkaroff, I've known the Potters for most of my life and more honest people you'll be hard put to find!" Remus answered, scowling faintly. Ainsley rarely ever saw Remus angry and so knew that this was probably very upsetting to him.

"Well, of course _you'd_ say that! You and that Black have always been close to the Potter family. Even if _they_ had done nothing, either one of you could easily have helped the boy cheat!" said Karkaroff coolly.

"Professor Karkaroff, I hired Mister Black and Mister Lupin as teachers because I trusted them fully and I _still_ have complete confidence in them," Dumbledore suddenly said, his eyes faintly cold. "I also place the same faith in Lily and James and know that they would never act so basely as you have suggested."

A faint tinge of flush appeared on Karkaroff's cheeks. His expression grew even more frigid.

"Anyway, Potter could not have crossed the Age Line," added Professor McGonagall sharply. "I'm sure we are all agreed on that – "

"Dumbly-dorr must 'ave made a mistake wiz ze line," said Madame Maxime, shrugging.

"It is possible, of course," said Dumbledore politely.

"Albus, you know perfectly well you did not make a mistake!" said McGonagall angrily. "Really, what nonsense! Ainsley could not have crossed the line himself, and as Professor Dumbledore believes that he did not persuade an older student to do it for him, I'm sure that should be good enough for everybody else!"

She shot a very angry look at Professor Snape.

Snape looked back at her, impassive. "Well, Minerva, who else could it have been but an older student? The Age Line was designed specifically to keep out anyone over or under the age of seventeen! You know that perfectly well."

"Well then, one of them must have put his name in without his knowing it!" she answered, adjusting her square-rimmed glasses.

"Why in ze world would zey want to do something like zat?" Madame Maxime asked dubiously.

McGonagall sighed in exasperation. "Mister Potter has made quite a few enemies in the school; it's probably someone's idea of a dirty prank."

"Mister Crouch… Mister Bagman," said Karkaroff, his voice unctuous once more, "you are our – er – objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is highly irregular?"

Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with a handkerchief and looked at Mr. Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. He looked even more upright and severe than normal in the half darkness, his hair's straight part and pencil thin mustache accentuated. When he spoke, his voice was curt and brief.

"We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the Tournament."

"Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front," said Bagman, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff and Madame Maxime as though the matter was now closed.

"I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students," said Karkaroff. He had dropped his unctuous tone and his smile now. His face wore a very ugly look indeed. "You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It's only fair, Dumbledore."

"But Karkaroff, it doesn't work like that," said Bagman. "The Goblet of Fire's just gone out – it won't reignite until the start of the next tournament – "

" – in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!" exploded Karkaroff. "After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! All of those blasted bungles of your Ministry are forgivable! But this – this is unendurable! I have half a mind to leave now!"

"Professor Karkaroff, you can hardly leave your champion now," Crouch said. "She is bound by a magical contract to compete. All of the contestants are."

"Yes, _convenient_ isn't it?" Karkaroff answered nastily.

"Convenient?" Dad asked, looking confused.

"Someone put Potter's name in the Goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out," Snape murmured, eyes glinting.

Madame Maxime said indignantly, "Evidently, someone 'oo wished to give 'Ogwarts two bites at ze same apple!"

"I quite agree, Madame Maxime," said Karkaroff, bowing to her. "I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic _and_ the International Confederation of Wizards – "

"If anyone 'as a reason to complain it is zis Potter," Pole announced suddenly.

"Why would _he _complain?" Malfoy sneered. "He has the chance to win a thousand Galleons, and everyone knows how these Gryffindors are with all that 'pride and honor' crap."

Pole looked at the Slytherin impassively. "It _iz_ a vairy grand opportunity, isn't it? One might say it iz even one zat many would _die_ for…"

An extremely taut silence invaded the room after these words. Ainsley almost winced from his father's tightening grip on his shoulder. He could feel Mum shivering slightly as she stared at Pole. Suddenly, Ainsley noticed how very similar their eyes were: this French boy's and his mother's…

Ludo Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed, bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said, "Jean, my dear boy… what a thing to say!"

He glanced at Bagman, looking irritated at being addressed so familiarly. "Per'aps… After all, we cannot be sure zat all of zese statements are exactly true… Some of you might 'ave good faith in zem, but you'll forgive us if the rest are not in entire agreement…" His eyes roamed politely over the little group of Ainsley, his parents, and Remus.

"My sentiments exactly," Karkaroff added icily.

"Yes, well…" Bagman flushed. He seemed uncertain what to do next.

"Everyone, of course, is entitled to their own opinions…" Dumbledore said politely. He began to address the entire room. "But how this situation arose, we cannot be sure of. It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Draco and Ainsley have been chose to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will have do…"

"Ah, but Dumbly-dorr –"

"My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it."

Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not speak, she merely glared. She wasn't the only one either. Snape looked furious; Karkaroff livid; Malfoy and Kurkov enraged; Bagman, on the other hand, looked rather excited.

"Well, shall we crack on, then?" he gaily, rubbing his hands together and smiling around the room. "Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honors?"

Mr. Crouch nodded shortly and moved forward into the firelight. Close up, Ainsley noticed how odd he looked in wizard's robes. He'd probably look better in muggle clothes. Or at least an expression that didn't resemble a basset hound's.

"The first task is designed to test your ability to cope under extreme stress," he told Ainsley, Malfoy, Pole, and Kurkov, "so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Calmness in the face of impending danger is an important quality in a wizard or witch. Very important.

"The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panels of judges.

"The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge supplied with everything necessary. You may also use your wand, if you so desire. Once the first task is over, you will receive information about the second challenge. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests."

Mr. Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore.

"I think that's all, is it, Albus?"

"I think so," said Dumbledore. "It's terribly late; would you like to stay the night here, Barty?"

"No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry," said Mr. Crouch. "It is very busy and I've left young Weatherby in charge… So I really must get back."

"You'll have a drink before you go, at least?" asked Dumbledore.

"Come on, Barty, I'm staying!" Bagman cried brightly. "It's all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!"

"I think not, Ludo," said Crouch with a touch of impatience.

"Professor Karkaroff – Madame Maxime – Lily, James – a nightcap?" Dumbledore said.

But Madame Maxime was already headed to the door, Pole hurrying forward to pull the door open for her. Karkaroff beckoned to Kurkov and left, Pole still holding the door. He looked at Kurkov expectantly.

"Mizz Kurkov?"

The tall girl was staring at Ainsley with a vicious glower, her nose upturned with distaste. Ainsley tried to raise himself up to look back at her with pride.

"You may think that you'll gain something by competing in the tournament," she began in a low, hateful tone, "but no matter vhat, you vill alvays be nothing more than an insignificant _little boy_."

And with that she spat disdainfully at Ainsley's feet and stormed out of the room. Pole followed without a single glance back.

"_Really_!" McGonagall said, scandalized.

Dumbledore sighed heavily. "Well… Ainsley, Draco, I suggest you go up to bed. I am sure Gryffindor and Slytherin are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise." He smiled.

Malfoy left promptly, giving Ainsley a last sneer.

"Well… I guess we'll be headed out now…" Dad murmured faintly. Mum and Remus nodded and they all steered Ainsley out the door.

The Great Hall was deserted now; the candles had burned down low, giving the jagged smiles of the pumpkins an eerie, flickering quality.

Ainsley squirmed slightly, looking at the hand on his shoulder pointedly. "Dad…"

"Oh, sorry…" He released the grip he had had for so long.

They said nothing more and crossed the empty Hall in the half-darkness. The great doors opened, creaking slightly, and Sirius's head popped in, his features anxious. He gestured for them to hurry out.

"I told everyone to get on to bed, but they took the longest time…" he said outside in the Entrance Hall. "Had to go and make sure there weren't any stragglers…" Sirius looked apprehensively at them.

Mum sighed wearily and looked down at Ainsley. "Just go on, Ainsley. We'll talk later in the morning."

"But –"

"Just listen to your mother, Ainsley," his dad said tensely. Ainsley stared at him. Dad often said that very phrase whenever he had just gotten into trouble, but it was only in a half-hearted and good-humored way. Ainsley could rarely remember when Dad had sounded so weird. He shrugged and obediently headed toward Gryffindor Tower.

As he clambered up marble steps, Ainsley vaguely wondered if his parents believed him. He supposed they did; he might be a bit of a brat with his pranks and everything, but he knew well enough where to draw the line. And Ainsley liked to think that he _was_ honest when it actually did matter. Remus and Sirius knew him extremely well, so it was hard to imagine that they would even think about doubting his word. Anyway, it's not like it mattered whether they trusted him or not; it would simply have been impossible for Ainsley to have crossed the Age Line, despite what Snape, Karkaroff, or Madame Maxime might think.

_"It **iz** a vairy grand opportunity, isn't it? One might say it iz even one zat many would **die** for…"_

Ainsley frowned. Had Pole really meant that? That someone wanted him dead? Ainsley knew that he did have quite a few rivals, but none of them would ever go _that_ far. It was more likely that the French teen had just said that to scare Ainsley. After all, no one was going to die. Not with all of the extra precautions the Ministry had been making.

Putting behind all of his misgivings, Ainsley finally allowed himself to become fully excited. He could already hear the cheering crowds and see the huge headlines. 'AINSLEY POTTER, WINNER OF TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT'. Yes, Ainsley thought with a grin, this was going to be his greatest year at Hogwarts yet.

* * *

"Well, well, well, Violet's just told me everything. Who's just been chosen as school champion, then?" 

Ainsley rolled his eyes. What was with women and gossip? Even paintings of women were infected with that horrible disease that forced them to spill their guts to anything that was even vaguely living.

He smiled cheekily at the Fat Lady and answered, "_Me_, of course!"

"Why you cocky little –"

"Banshee breath," Ainsley quickly inserted before the pale witch beside the Fat Lady could go on.

"Well, I _NEVER_," the witch cried indignantly.

"No, no, Vi, it's the password," soothed the Fat Lady, and she swung forward on her hinges to let Ainsley into the common room.

The blast of noise that emerged struck Ainsley like thunder, nearly bowling him over. Before he knew it, he was being dragged into the common room by dozens of hands, and was facing the entire Gryffindor House, all of whom were screaming, applauding, and whistling.

"You shoulda told us you were entering!" Colin Creevey shouted at Ainsley's ear; he looked deeply impressed.

"How'd you do it without getting a beard? Brilliant!" Dennis Creevey cried beside him.

"I didn't! You were there!" Ainsley yelled back. "I don't know how –"

But Ron Weasley chose that moment to swoop down upon him; "If it wasn't me, at least it was a Gryffindor! Pulverize that slimy Slytherin git, Potter!"

"You'll pay those arses back for stealing the Quidditch Cup for so long!" yelled Dean Thomas, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

"We've got food, Ainsley, come and have some!"

"Wicked!"

Ainsley grinned as butterbeers and crisps and peanuts were practically shoveled on him. Seamus Finnigan had unearthed a Gryffindor banner somewhere and threw it over his shoulders like a robe fit for a king. Ainsley obliged them by giving a rowdy victory prance around the common room, causing roars of laughter. Finally he found himself shoved into an armchair, thousands of questions directed at him. He gave a sign of silence and gradually the chatter died down until everyone's attentions were on him.

"Well, come on, Ainsley!" Dennis burst out in excitement.

"Well…" Ainsley put on an uncertain face, as if wondering whether or not to let slip a terrible secret.

"Come on!"

"Hurry up then!"

"Alright," he said in exuberance of reluctance. "The thing is…"

"Yes!"

"Tell us, already!"

"I've no clue how it happened." Ainsley said impertinently.

They all groaned and laughed. The roar of chatter and shouts began again, and people kept coming up to congratulate Ainsley and pass him sweet and snacks. Suddenly Ginny Weasley was beside him, beaming.

"Congrats, Ainsley!" she said, handing him a Cauldron Cake. "You're gonna do great in the tournament!"

Ainsley blushed furiously. "Uh, um, th-thanks, Ginny!"

"Are you all right?" she asked, concerned. "You're a bit flushed. Maybe all the excitement's gotten to you…" She reached out a hand to feel his forehead.

Ainsley leaped up, embarrassed. "NO! I- I mean, I'm all right! Really! P- Perfectly healthy!"

Ginny shrugged but smiled. "Okay, if you say so, Ainsley." She went off to talk with some friends.

As Ainsley felt his heart rate finally slow down, an arm was slung around his shoulders. He looked up to see the grinning face of Liam Shea, his shaggy brown hair falling everywhere.

"Man, you got it bad, Potter," he crowed teasingly.

Ainsley scowled and shoved the fifth year off. "Shut up, Liam."

"Hey, hey!" he laughed, throwing his hands up in defense. "I'm just joking!"

"Whatever," he muttered, opening up another butterbeer.

Liam slouched into Ainsley's vacant seat, looking up at him. "Seriously, though, when are you going to just go for it?"

"I dunno," Ainsley said, getting pink again. "Sometime."

"Y'know, nearly ninety-nine percent of the time, sometime equals never."

Peeved, Ainsley made to move away. "So what!"

"So," a hand grabbed his wrist, making Ainsley pause, "if you don't hurry up already, someone else'll get to Weasley first."

He finally looked at Liam anxiously. "You don't think that would happen do you?"

He shrugged and let go of his hand. "I dunno, Ainsley. She's pretty cute."

"Who's pretty cute?" Ron abruptly thumped down into the chair beside Liam.

"Er…" Ainsley said, flushing. Clever.

"Those French chicks from Beauxbatons." Liam grinned nonchalantly. Ainsley silently thanked him.

"You're telling me," Ron laughed. "But they'd never give guys like us the time of day."

"Probably," agreed Liam. "Oh woe is us!"

Ainsley rolled his eyes and chugged down his butterbeer. Liam was an idiot and a pervert, but he could think up the greatest pranks.

"Oi, Ainsley, since you'll be spending so much time with them, y'know, since you're the champion and all that, you could introduce us poor pathetic fellows to some of those French girlies," Liam said, smirking.

"I'll have a brunet, Ainsley!"

"A blonde for me, dear old chap!"

Ainsley snorted and threw a stack of Pumpkin Pasties at them. "Go get them yourselves!"

Suddenly, Ainsley was knocked to the ground, a large figure hitting his back. "OOMPH!"

He looked up to gales of loud and raucous laughter. A large yellow canary seemed to be sitting on him.

"Dammit! Who the hell brought the Canary Creams?"

* * *

_THUNK. THUNK. THUNK._

Ainsley groaned loudly and turned over in his bed, trying to cover his head with a pillow.

_THUNK. THUNK. THUNK._

The incessant pounding continued and Ainsley had little choice but to drag himself out from under the covers. Grumbling, he swung his feet over the side of the bed and stumbled across the fourth year Gryffindor boys' dorm. His feet hit the rugs with muted thumps before he paused before the window, weak morning light pouring within.

A bright-eyed, tawny owl was perched on the stone outside, a package clamped firmly in its claws. Ainsley flipped the metal clasp up and swung the glass open wide. The owl flittered in and pecked at his hand cheerfully. Ainsley scowled and resisted the urge to set the bird's tail feathers on fire. Instead, he opted for simply taking the parcel from it, giving it a few knuts to pay for the delivery service. The owl hooted gaily, and rather too loudly for Ainsley's taste, and hopped out into the dawn air.

He glared at the retreating dot in the clouds, before closing thewindow again and taking the package to his bed. Ainsley tossed it casually on the rumpled coverlet and sheets before grabbing a set of robes to change into. As he pulled his pajamas over his head, he glanced at the little brown-wrapped box. It said it was from 'Zonko's: Weasley's Wizard Wheezes Division'.

Ainsley grinned. Ever since Weasley's older twin brothers had joined the Zonko's company, the best gags and pranks had been produced, en masse, than ever seen before. This particular package contained the one thing that Ainsley had been waiting for weeks for, and he had only managed to get his grubby little paws on it via his connection through George and Fred Weasley's younger brother. But all of those saved galleons and the endless waiting were definitely going to be worth it.

Ainsley carefully lifted the small box from his bed and placed inside his trunk with the greatest delicacy to save for later. Looking around the room, he noticed a small slip of parchment that must have escaped his sluggish attention from before. Picking it up, he saw only four words written down in a messy scrawl:

'_Make us proud, Pronglet.'_

"Will do, Misters Gred and Forge."

"Wha ya yammerin' about…?" Ainsley looked up and saw Dennis's tousled and drowsy face peering at him from his bed curtains.

"Nothing, nothing, Dennis, m'boy!" he exclaimed merrily, quickly pulling him by the arm from his bed. "Come on, I say! Too late to be in bed, wot!"

"Fine, fine, I'm getting up, I'm getting up…" Dennis groused, slowly changing into robes. "Why're you making me get up so early, then?"

"Because, lad," Ainsley answered, plopping onto the window seat, "we're meeting Oleander and Stewert by the lake, and they'll already be out there by the time we finish breakfast."

Dennis looked up at him, surprised. "How d'you know that? You haven't seen them since yesterday."

"Oh, I just _know_," he replied smugly.

"Huh." The other boy sounded unimpressed. "You mean _Oleander_ just knows."

"I'll have you know –"

"Oh, whatever. Let's just go down already if you won't let me go back to bed. And on a _Saturday_, no less."

Ainsley leapt up and clapped a hand on the mousy boy's back. "That's the spirit, old boy!"

"Yeah, yeah, cheerio and all that."

* * *

Down at the Great Hall, Ainsley was utterly _basking_ in the attention, good and bad, that he was currently receiving. The Gryffindors, though rather bleary-eyed from last night, were still thumping him on the back and congratulating him loudly. They had all shouted at him to sit by them when he had entered and many got up throughout breakfast to give Ainsley an encouraging word. 

The Slytherins were not so pleased. When Ainsley had entered they all booed and heckled him loudly, calling him things like 'cheat' or 'sniveling little brat'. All to which he had replied to with a cheery wave and a cheeky bow.

"Better hold your mummy's hand during the tasks, Potter. I hear they're fearsome horrid," said one Slytherin passing by.

"Why, Baddock, I never knew you cared! But I think I'll be holding _your _hand, after all, it's likely the only thing you'll be defending any time soon!"

The Gryffindor Quidditch team roared with laughter. Malcolm Baddock had been the Slytherin Keeper last year, but got kicked off because of his constantly letting the other team score excruciatingly easy shots.

The boy reddened. "Why, I oughta – "

"Move it along, Baddock, move it along." Professor Sprout, though no McGonagall, could be rather harsh when needed.

Baddock scowled but left after giving Ainsley a last glare. Professor Sprout nodded to Ainsley, her manner a bit frosty. Ainsley frowned. He was usually on very good terms with Sprout, but then he remembered that she was the head of Hufflepuff House.

Glancing at the next table over, he was met with many cold stares but also some very warm ones. At the Ravenclaw table, it was very much the same. Ainsley was a tad confused until he noticed the age difference in the two groups. It seemed that anyone over fourth year in both Houses was quite upset that someone far younger, and far more inexperienced, than them had been chosen for such a prestigious opportunity. However, anyone in Ainsley's year or under was thrilled that someone finally had the chance to prove to their seniors that they could do just as well as them and deserved just as much respect.

Looking up at the staff table, Ainsley could see that many of their teachers were missing. Snape, Flitwick, McGonagall, and Remus's seats were all empty. Sighting Sirius further down the table, he waved slightly, hoping to catch his eye. But his godfather was staring fixedly at his nearly empty plate, swirling a fork across it with an odd squeaking noise. Disappointed, Ainsley looked back down at his own plate. He suddenly didn't feel very hungry anymore. Of all people, he had at least expected Sirius to still be friendly with him.

Suddenly, Dumbledore rose to his feet, holding his arms up for silence. The murmur died down.

"My dear students – and guests – I have the pleasure of announcing a special treat for our seventh years," he said, smiling at them genially.

"Since Hogwarts is welcoming so many wonderfully bright young men and women into our halls, it would be to the benefit of all to learn as much as they can from these new peers of theirs," Dumbledore continued. "So, Madame Maxime, Professor Karkaroff and myself have planned out inter-school classes for all Hogwarts seventh years and the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang."

A few groans could be heard throughout the sparse groupings of seventh years. Just what they needed; more classes!

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly in the direction of Ron Weasley who had moaned the loudest and had been promptly smacked by Hermione Granger. "These classes will take place on this coming Monday and every first Monday after each Task in the Triwizard Tournament. On each inter-school class day, the seventh years will be exempt from the rest of their regular classes and will have the mornings, until eleven o'clock, off.

"For any student who has failed to attend breakfast to catch up on their beauty sleep, I kindly ask their friends to inform them. Any other additional information will be posted on the bulletin boards in the common rooms and the entrance hall."

As he was a fourth year and not a seventh, Ainsley promptly disregarded this as info to be completely forgotten about. As he glanced at Sirius again one last time, he clambered to his feet and grabbed Dennis, toast still his mouth, and headed out the door. Ainsley ignored all the shouts that followed him, whether they were amiable or hostile.

"Wh- Where we go- going!" Dennis cried through a mouth full of toast.

Pushing back his uneasy thoughts about his godfather, Ainsley tired to focus on his plans. "I told you, Dennis, to meet Stewert and Oleander!"

"Oh." The boy stopped struggling and hurried into a steady pace that matched Ainsley's.

Steping out of the great wooden doors leading out onto the grounds, the boys were met with a moderately cool breeze that felt pleasant to the skin and refreshing. Together, they trekked across the surprisingly dry grass, past the Durmstrang ship still planted firmly in the earth, toward the blue expanse that was the Hogwarts lake. Nearing the bank, they could see two figures sitting on a check blanket draped over a thick log. Ainsley plopped down beside them as Dennis sat down more carefully.

"You are rather late."

The wispy, soft voice belonged to the blonde, dark-eyed girl seated right next to Ainsley. She was extremely thin and frail, skeletal almost, but her eyes were vivid in a black, brooding way that always mystified Ainsley, ever since he had first met her. That was one of the reasons he had first befriended Oleander Davis¹. Many people thought her to be extremely creepy, and they were right, but Ainsley had been drawn towards her all the more for it.

"Sorry, Oleander. It was Dennis's fault."

Dennis, who had managed to finally stuff the last bits of his toast into his mouth, spluttered, "Wh- what? _You_ were the one sucking up to all those people congratulating you!"

"Dennis! You wound me!"

"Oh, shut up, you two." Stewert Ackerly glared at them across from Oleander.

Ainsley said mockingly, "What's wrong, Stewey? Forget to bring all your homework not due in weeks?"

"There's nothing wrong with completing assignments _on time_," he retorted, brushing cinnamon locks out of his eyes.

"Yeah, if you're a prat, that is."

Stewert rolled his eyes and said sarcastically, "Oh, _touché_."

Ainsley rose to his feet, advancing toward the Ravenclaw as if he was going to start a fight. "Wanna say that again, Ackerly?"

"Why not, _Potter_?" He leapt up as well.

"Sit," Oleander stated calmly, gazing serenely over the lake.

The both instantly sat. Ainsley and Stewert had that sort of love-hate relationship where they would bicker mercilessly at each other but immediately pound into the ground anyone else that insulted the other. Oleander, however, was far more fearsome to both, so she nearly always had the final say in everything. Oleander would never bother with trivial fistfights; no, she was the type to creep up behind you in a dark, locked room and breathe heavily on your neck. As most everyone in school knew, Oleander was very eerie.

In the slightly awkward silence that followed, Dennis burst out, "Erm, Oleander, how'd you and Stewert know we'd be here?"

She looked at him for a moment, her large eyes expressionless. The mousy boy squirmed. Finally she said, "I just knew."

"But that," she continued, "is quite irrelevant. We came here to discuss Ainsley and the Triwizard Tournament."

"We did?" Dennis asked, confused.

Ainsley, undaunted, grinned. "Course, Dennis, don't you –"

"Planning your strategies already, brat?"

Ainsley, Stewert, and Dennis whirled around; Oleander simply continued to stare out across the lake. A few yards behind them stood Monika Kurkov and two other Durmstrang students, judging by their furs and disdainful scowls. Kurkov, her pale hair swaying lightly, moved closer, her lip curled.

"I vould suggest first realizing how hopeless your fate is," she sneered.

"Really? And how is _that_ so?" Stewert answered boldly.

Her thin, pointed eyes barely glanced at him before settling back on Ainsley. "Vell, for one thing, how can he expect to effar be able to survive the _treachery_ of the tournament vith friends like these?"

Ainsley and Stewert, side by side, stiffened and glared while Dennis literally trembled with fury or fear, no one knew.

"And, for another thing, you should know how many people haff died in the Triwizard," she smiled cruelly, "dozens – hundreds – thousands."

"Forty-eight."

Kurkov looked at Oleander – or her back, rather – with a tad bit of astonishment.

"Vhat?" she demanded.

The little Ravenclaw girl raised herself up regally, looking back at Kurkov with cold eyes. "Exactly forty-eight people have died in the Triwizard Tournament since it was first initiated."

Kurkov glowered. "It should not matter how _many_ died. All that matters is that all of those _forty-eight_" – she glared at Oleander – "vere far more experienced and far smarter than _you_." She pointed a contemptuous finger at Ainsley.

"I could not 'ave put it any better, Mizz Kurkov."

The Durmstrang champion looked over her shoulder to see Jean Pole leaning casually against a large tree nearby. He had a soft smirk on and was looking on over the scene with something alike to amusement.

Kurkov turned so that she was slightly facing Pole but could still keep an eye on Ainsley and his friends. Not that she needed to worry; her two friends looked as if they were simply bursting at the seems to jump the fourth years.

"Really? And you French haff alvays been know for your eloquence in words," Kurkov looked back at Pole with a sly grin.

He pushed himself up from against the tree and shifted forward, his motions smooth. He smiled and bowed complimentarily. "Ah, you flatter my people! But thank you, all ze same."

"Ach, vhat's not to flatter? The French haff alvays been so… _honest_," she said in a rather insinuating way. "I'm starting to think that the English are not so… reliable…"

"Yes, unfortunately I, too, find myself doubting our 'osts, as terrible as zat sounds…" Pole murmured, sounding not at all regretful.

Kurkov smirked and said, "It seems ve haff a common bond, you could say… And common bonds ought to strengthened, eh?"

"Indeed zey should," answered Pole, returning the smirk, "In fact, such _common bonds_ should really… assist one anozzer in any way zey can in such, ah, _perilous_ conditions as zose zat we find ourselves in…"

"I quite agree," she said, her eyes glinting. Kurkov glanced at Ainsley. "Perhaps ve should discuss this somevhere more private?"

Pole bowed and moved to the side. "As ze Madame wishes."

Kurkov waved a hand at the other two Durmstrang students and headed off briskly across the vast grounds, Pole following at a more sedate pace.

* * *

¹ - Oleander **_Davis_** (see below)

* * *

**A/N**: I was going to update a lot sooner, but my great-grandmother very recently passed away, so I've been busy and too distracted to write properly. Oleander's last name was originally Zieghl, but I changed it to Davis which was my great-grandmother's last name. They looked extremely similar, so I thought it was a bit fitting… 

Well, it seems Jean and Monika are forming an alliance, thrilling huh? They're going to be one dynamic duo, so Ainsley'd do well to watch out. And Ainsley has a crush on Ginny; I thought that was pretty cute. Did anyone catch the 'under or over seventeen' thing from the first chapter? I was hoping someone would, but no one mentioned it in a review… But that should lower the suspects of who put Ainsley's name in the Goblet of Fire.

And lastly, I'm not sure when I'll next be able to update. I'm at my dad's house at the moment and I've left all of my notes and timelines for the story at my mom's. I won't be heading back for two weeks, so I'm going to have to try my best to trudge along by memory alone… Wish me luck. n.n;


	4. Perforation

**We, In Faith**

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter Four**: Perforation

* * *

A feeling of supreme contentment and satisfaction swept over Jean as he watched the retreating figures of Monika Kurkov and her two toads. Leaning against the doorframe in the entrance to the Beauxbatons boys' carriage, he could feel a thin smile crossing his face. 

Yes, this Kurkov would be a powerful ally indeed. Throughout their entire 'discussion' after her little bout with the Potter boy, Kurkov had showed a tendency toward a bold abruptness that, combined with her powerful glares and commanding mien, could prove to be quite unsettling to anyone without the strength of will to match hers. Fortunately, Jean was one such person.

Those two lackeys of hers also did not go unnoticed to Jean. At every simple wave of the finger or glance of the eye, they would each immediately obey her commands. It seems that Miss Kurkov was quite the leader. Jean had the feeling that she gained such respect through intimidation or any other means possible. But she did not treat such followers like dogs; no, she treated them with an air that demanded esteem but also promised protection born from true honor.

But Kurkov had also accepted the fact that Jean would never degrade himself to such menial behavior. He had made it quite clear, in his own subtle and delicate manner, that he expected to be treated like an equal and had of course received such consideration. Kurkov apparently had a great deal of approval of anyone that could make such a distinction in themselves.

Despite the differences in their personalities, Jean had the definite feeling that he and Kurkov would be getting along quite fine.

Shifting slightly in his position inside the doorway, he looked across the grounds to the other Beauxbatons carriages. Last night, the rest of his classmates had been happy for him, although some were quite disappointed in not being chosen, but all had congratulated him in varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Meri, of course, had been the most vocal in her approval.

"Ah, I always knew you would be the one, Jean! You will show these barbarian foreigners what a real wizard can do!" she had exclaimed exuberantly.

Suddenly, a figure clambered swiftly down from Headmistress's coach and turned to walk briskly toward Jean. It was Jacques, his sandy hair ruffled in the cool breeze. He looked dejected, depressed almost. Jean remembered him as one of the most disappointed after the Goblet of Fire's decision.

Nearing him, Jacques looked up at Jean glumly. "Hello, Jean…"

"Jacques," he nodded back. "Are you all right?"

"I'll be fine," Jacques sighed heavily. "Though I fear I'm quite miffed with you, Monsieur Pole."

Suspecting that he was simply over-dramatizing the entire affair, Jean rolled his eyes. "I do believe you'll somehow be able to recover, Monsieur Lealan."

Jacques grinned and shook his head. "You're no good at this game, Jean. You're supposed to go all arrogant and let me start a fight with you!"

"You can go down to the local pub if you want to have a brawl so badly," Jean answered, sniffing disdainfully.

"Ah, I wish we could!" said Jacques, irritated. "But Headmistress is an absolute despot! Imagine, right after our champion was chosen she sends us straight to bed, no celebrating allowed!"

"Yes, we suffered greatly for the loss," Jean said sarcastically.

Jacques grinned. "Don't be such a stick in the mud, Jean! Hey, what do you say to sneaking down to the little village outside the grounds some night and getting drunk?"

"Sounds utterly charming," scoffed Jean. "I can already feel the hangover."

"Splendid!" Jacques cried, slipping past Jean as he went inside. "I'll make the plans, _mon cheri_!"

He rolled his eyes once more and called after him, "Don't forget to invite Orlando!"

Jacques paused at the staircase. "You're right! He's an utter delight when intoxicated! Oh, I almost forgot…" He put on a tad more serious face. "Headmistress wants to see you; you ought to head over to her carriage right away."

Jean nodded and stepped down from the boys' coach. He imagined this was about the tournament. Headmistress, though eternally regal and elegant, was really quite desperate to win this competition. She craved the attention and renown that would be due to their school if they won. Jean suspected she would even stoop to cheating if needed. Truthfully, he wouldn't really mind the extra help. Though he did want to gain respect for the school he had grown up in, Jean was more eager to gain the prize money for his own purposes.

Entering Headmistress's carriage quietly, he saw that the spacious living room type chamber was completely empty, the hearth bare and spotlessly clean. _House elves_… Jean thought vaguely. Passing chintz armchairs and cozy little wooden tables, he silently ascended the marble staircase to the right of the room. At the top landing, he opened a great oaken door and stepped out into a brightly-lit hallway, the walls lined with doors and various paintings. Jean moved forward until he came to a stop before the second door on the left; he reached forward and knocked firmly.

"Come in."

Jean had barely touched the antique, silvery doorknob before it swung open noiselessly. Inside, Headmistress was seated behind an enormous desk, her onyx eyes peering up at him over little metal-framed spectacles. He bowed deeply and she gave a gesture for him to sit in one of the plush armchairs in front of her desk. Easing into the chair, he gazed about him slightly. The room was artistically decorated in deep forest greens and pale yellows with delicate little heirlooms and other curios scattered tastefully about. The whole room gave the impression of someone with refined cultivation.

"You wanted to see me, Headmistress?" he inquired politely.

She nodded her great, handsome head and removed her little glasses. "I wanted to congratulate you again, Jean. I know you will do well in this competition; I have watched you in your educational career, and a finer student I doubt I shall find. You have courage, a quick mind, a great affinity for magic, and a boundless thirst for excellence."

"I thank you, Headmistress. Your words mean much to me…" Jean murmured.

"Yes… And I do hope you know, Jean, that I will do everything in my power to help you," Madame Maxime added, looking at him pointedly. "Though, as of yet, I've no idea of specifically how to help you…"

Jean nodded. He understood all of this perfectly, of course. She meant that she was ready to cheat for him but still did not have any exact knowledge on the first task, or any other, apparently. All of which he had already come to surmise about long before.

"I would be thankful for any assistance you could offer me…" he said.

Jean's subtlety did not go over her head. She studied him, her black eyes sharp. "Yes… Yes, the goblet did well in choosing you as the champion. You may go."

He rose to his feet and made to move to the door, but Headmistress suddenly held up a hand. He paused, looking back at her expectantly.

"Before you go, would you mind checking on the horses for me, Jean?" she asked. "Professor Dumbledore informed me that they are with the Grounds Keeper, Hagrid… I think he is the one that lives in that little hut…"

He bowed, saying, "As you wish, Madame."

She nodded and he left, silently closing the door behind him.

* * *

"Ah, Remus! Good ter see yeh! An what can I do fer yeh?" 

Remus smiled warmly up at the great giant of a man called Rubeus Hagrid.

"Hullo, Hagrid!" he said, leaning on the wooden fence. "I just dropped by to say hello…"

Hagrid's beard twitched downward slightly in what Remus supposed was a frown. "Do yeh want to come in fer a spot o' tea…?"

"Ah, no, no… I really couldn't…" He shook his head vaguely and watched as the great winged horses within the corral snorted and glared back at him. "Say, were you the one that took care of Madame Maxime's horses…?"

"Yeah, Sirius came by the other night and asked me ter give him a favor," said Hagrid enthusiastically. "An I jus' couldna refused; beautiful creatures they are…"

Remus nodded and smiled. It really was a shame that Hagrid wasn't allowed to become anything more than a Keeper of Grounds; heaven knew that he would be far more capable as a Care of Magical Creatures professor than Sirius could ever hope to be.

"But, yeh know…" He began uncertainly, looking searchingly at Remus. "I never really expected tha' Ainsley'd ever be able ter actually become a champion…"

Remus looked at Hagrid sharply. "Did he tell you anything?"

He shrugged his great, broad shoulders. "He and tha' little Creevey boy are always comin' down here, just ter visit yeh know, and sometimes they tell me abou' all those pranks an' things… Regular Fred an' George Weasley they are…"

"I guess they told you about trying to get past the Age Line, too," added Remus.

"Yeah, he did…" Hagrid nodded. "But he also told me tha' he didna know how his name got picked, same as ev'ryone else, an' I believe him. He mightna make the little white lie ev'ry now an' then, but he wouldna lie about tha'."

"I feel the same," said Remus, smiling. "Lily's blood does count for something, after all."

Hagrid chuckled appreciatively, his beetle-black eyes shining merrily. "She'd not let – oh, 'lo there!"

Remus turned to see what Hagrid was looking at. Jean Pole was approaching them sedately, his eyes watching the pair calmly.

"Good morning," he answered to Hagrid's cheery greeting. "You are Rubeus 'Agrid…?"

"Yeah, tha's me…" Hagrid said, his wild mane of hair flying about.

The boy glanced out over the fenced in winged horses. "I came to inquire about my 'Eadmistress's 'orses…"

Hagrid nodded and smiled. "They're adjusting jus' fine. The night weather's a bit cold fer them, so I made sure to put extra insulation in tha' stable over there." He pointed out a red barn further down the pasture.

"You are feeding zem single-malt whiskey?" asked Pole as he coolly surveyed Hogwarts's Keeper of Grounds.

"Yep, jus' like Madame Maxime said," Hagrid answered.

He nodded shortly. "My 'Eadmistress sends her gratitude for taking such consideration…"

"It's no problem at all!" said Hagrid. "They're beautiful things, they are."

"Yes, well, I 'ope that you will continue to take such good care of zem…" He made to leave.

"Ah, wait one moment, please!" Remus suddenly said, moving forward. Pole looked back at him, his eyes searching. "I have a letter for Madame Maxime from Dumbledore that he asked me to deliver. Let's just head there together, shall we?" He smiled, uncertainty barely glinting within his eyes.

The boy gazed back, his features neutral, and after a small pause said, "As you wish."

"Well, see you later, Hagrid!" Remus quickly called to the great man as he strode forward to keep in step with Pole. As they trekked together across the grass, Remus held out a hand, saying, "I don't believe we've actually been properly introduced. I'm Remus Lupin, a professor here at Hogwarts."

"Jean Pole," the boy replied briefly, giving his hand a firm shake. His entire demeanor gave the impression of frigid impassivity and perhaps even a touch of suspicion. Yes, Lily and James would have to work hard to get this boy's trust. Remus couldn't help but wonder what had made Jean become so distant and standoffish from anyone whom he was intimately acquainted with. He then mentally berated himself for jumping to conclusions; it was quite feasible that the boy's manner was simply sprouted from his own personality.

"Ah, well, congratulations on becoming the champion of your school," said Remus to break the slightly stifling silence that had settled over them.

Pole glanced at him. "Yes, it is a great 'onor…"

"You know, my students would probably kill me for saying this, but I sincerely wish you luck," he added, smiling faintly.

"I'm grateful…" the boy murmured.

_Now or never_, Remus briefly before he decided to plunge ahead. "And, I'd just like to say that neither James or Lily Potter mean you any harm. After all these years, I just don't think they've really ever lost hope, and after having the joy of their lives being taken so horrificly… I can only imagine…"

Pole gazed at him with an odd look. "You speak as if you know zem well…"

"Yes, well… We friends were in school and have been ever since," answered Remus, reminscing about the Marauder days. "We've been through a lot together; they're more dear to me family…"

"Would zis 'we' also include Professor Sirius Black?"

Remus started, surprised. "How did you know that?"

Pole shrugged, his mask of indifference settling over his features once more. "A calculated guess."

"Ah…" _Clever, very clever…_ he thought to himself. "Well, actually, Sirius was probably a bit closer to Lily and James than I was… They chose him to Harry's godfather, you know. He took it hard, too – "

"Mister Lupin, I 'ope you understand zat I am not unsympathetic for ze Potters' loss, but you see, it simply impossible for me to be zair son," Pole interrupted, his words direct.

"Why, though?"

The boy glanced at Remus sharply. "Because, a baby could 'ardly survive an attack from ze Dark Lord 'imself _and_ a 'ouse fire, and, beside zat, I was born in France. Not England."

"You are positive of that…?" asked Remus gently.

He pressed his lips into a thin line and looked away. "I _was_ adopted, if zat was what you were asking."

The older man nodded simply and said, "I understand. You needn't dig up old pasts if you don't want to." They suddenly found themselves in front of the towering black carriages of Beauxbatons. "But, Jean, if I might address you so, please consider the uncertainty of the entire situation. As their friend, it really pains me to see Lily and James in such turmoil…"

The boy paused, apprehensive for the first time throughout their entire conversation. "…I will think about it," he finally muttered, quickly entering one of the huge coaches.

Remus sighed. He supposed he had at least gotten the boy to be a bit more open to them, but his trust would be harder to achieve. He reached into his robe pocket to take out the letter to Madame Maxime he had mentioned earlier.

As he gazed down at the green ink, he was reminded again of the boy's eyes. "Thanks again, Albus, for not using an owl…" he murmured, stepping up to the largest of the three carriages.

* * *

"Where _is_ he?" Meri demanded impatiently to no one in particular. She tapped her fingers rhythmically against the desktop, glaring about with bad humor. 

Beside her, Jacques leaned backwards against the desk behind them and propped up his feet. "Eh, don't worry about it so much, Meri. That's how you get wrinkles," he teased in nonchalant French.

"Oh, shut up!" she snapped, smacking his leg atop the table.

Jacques cried out in mock pain. "So violent! I should report you for assault!"

"Oh, please don't fight!" begged Pierce nervously. As he watched them, he shifted uncomforably in his seat beside Jacques.

"Laramie," Jacques chuckled, sitting upright and flinging an arm about the other boy's shoulders, "we're only joking – "

"Speak for yourself," Meri muttered. Times like these were when she really needed Jean by her side to keep her from biting off heads or something. Unfortunately, they had been sorted into different classes.

"I mean, really, you need to loosen up!"

"Excuse me." Meri looked up at the girl who had spoken in the accented English. Monika Kurkov gazed back, her sharp eyes polite.

"Iz zair something I can 'elp you with?" she asked, switching to English as well.

The other girl gestured to the two empty seats beside Meri. "May ve…?"

Meri nodded courteously. Kurkov and a Durmstrang boy slipped into the chairs. Two days ago, Saturday, Jean had informed Meri that he formed something of an alliance with the Durmstrang champion and suspected that she would be useful during the tournament. Meri had complete faith her friend's intuition, but that didn't mean that they should go around completely trusting this imposing girl. She was still the competition, after all.

"I suppose you are enjoying these 'inter-school classes' as much as ve are?" Kurkov asked, her voice smothered in sarcasm.

"Zey are razzer tedious, aren't zey?" Jacques chuckled.

"It vould probably help if the professor vere actually here," added Kurkov, glaring at the empty teacher's podium.

Meri arched a brow in surprise. "But 'e is your 'eadmaster, isn't 'e?"

"In name only," the other girl snorted. "The other proffessors and the senior students are really the ones that run Durmstrang. Karkaroff vould rather laze about in a silk dressing gown with an expensive cigar. But he still insists on taking all the glory and money that _ve_ haff earned."

"'E sounds vairy irresponsible for someone wiz so much power," Meri murmured sympathetically. Best to build up the trust on one side for use later.

Kurkov shrugged casually. "It's not that horrible. At least he isn't a tyrant like yours."

"'Eadmistress is not a _tyrant_," quipped Meri irritably. Jacques snorted slightly at this statement. "She just receives the respect zat she deserves!"

"_Respect_? It looked more like _groveling_ to me."

Meri whirled around in her seat, glaring at the speaker behind them. It was that frizzy-haired girl from the Halloween Feast: Helga something or other. Undaunted, the girl glared right back while the two beside her watched them nervously.

"I suppose to a _barbarian_ such as yourself it would seem like _groveling_, wouldn't it?" Meri hissed angrily.

The Hogwarts girl raised herself up and hissed back, "If anyone's the barbarian around here, it's your Beauxbatons lot! This is the twentieth century, you know, when women actually have _minds of their own_?"

"H- Hermione – "

"Stay out of it, Neville."

"But Lavender – "

Meri ignored the two beside the frizzy-haired girl. "Well, of course ze art of chivalry would be lost on _you_! I mean, I doubt anyone would be caught _dead_ opening ze door for a buck-toothed bush wiz legs!"

Kurkov and Jacques laughed loudly at this as the girl called Hermione blushed furiously. Meri gave a triumphant smile, flinging her hair back arrogantly.

"If they did at least it would be for my personality and not my cleavage!" spit the bush at last.

Meri sniffed and menacingly drew closer. "_At least I **'ave** cleavage_!" she whispered icily.

"Settle down, settle down!" Karkaroff chose that moment to finally appear, half an hour late, snapping at the chattering mass of students from Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts. Meri gave a final glower to the girl behind her, which was returned, and turned back around in her seat.

A small slip of paper came into her line of vision, brushing against her left hand. A single word was printed on it: _Nice_. Meri turned to Kurkov, smirking smugly. She grinned, her pale eyes approving.

The next tedious hour was spent with Karkaroff lecturing on something that Meri didn't pay attention to. She spent most of the time doodling or passing quipy notes with Kurkov. Not that Karkaroff minded; he too looked as if this was the last place on earth where he wanted to be.

Finally, the bell rung and the entire classroom of bored seventeen-year-olds made a mad dash to the door (led by Karkaroff, who left despite the fact he still had another class to teach), jostling and pushing. In the confusion, Meri sighted a familiar brown hedge not far in front of her. On a whim, she shoved forward, jarring roughly against the girl.

As she hurried forward, Meri glanced over her shoulder and called sweetly, "Sorry!"

The bush fumed and turned an angry scarlet. The plump boy she had been knocked into asked her a question, but she was too intent on glaring at Meri's receding back.

Meri chuckled softly under her breath, leaning outside of the door. She still had another class to go to, the last one, but she wanted to wait a while to catch a quick word with Jean; Karkaroff had been the last class on his schedule. She suspected that she might have a while to wait. Despite being drafty and rather unrefined, the Hogwarts castle was a hassle to navigate.

"Waiting for me?" Jean's voice was offhand and familiar, the French welcome on Meri's ears after so much use of English.

She smiled and pushed herself up off against the wall. "Indeed I was. How was Headmistress's class?"

Jean shrugged, flicking a stray lock of ebony back into place. "Same as always. Lecturing, lecturing, and more lecturing."

Meri nodded, rolling her eyes. "Same with Karkaroff. But at least I had a form of amusement until he actually even arrived."

Jean gave her a dubious look. He knew that the word 'amusement' and a vicious glint in her eyes combined to equal another classic Mariette Clehedault scene.

"Who did you insult this time?"

Meri scowled and tossed her head. "For your information, _I_ was the one insulted!"

"The first one?"

"Yes, of course!" she retorted, stamping a foot rather childishly.

Jean laughed softly and gave her a one-armed hug. "You never fail to amuse me, Mariette. Tell me about this little tiff later, or else we'll be late for class."

Meri snorted scornfully. "Some classes."

"Just go on."

"All right," she sighed heavily. She left, to somehow find the way to Dumbledore's class.

* * *

Jean watched as Meri trekked her way through the mass of swarming students, a few slipping past him into and out of the door beside him. His thoughts wandered suddenly to his conversation with that Hogwarts professor. A small, guilty knot formed in his stomach; he had not told Meri about it. He didn't want to worry her, and, besides, it wasn't as if it had really meant anything. 

"Pole."

Jerked from his thoughts, he glanced up at Kurkov as she emerged from the doorway, nodding at him.

"Kurkov," he greeted.

She slipped beside him, leaning against the cool stone and mortar. "Listen, I haff heard a bit about that Potter brat."

"I see," he kept his tone calm and soft, watching those around them. Most were too busy rushing to classes to pay attention, but those who did gave them odd looks. It was an unusual and a bit impressive sight to see two of the tournament champions conferring in quiet undertones.

"Yes, he really shouldn't be a threat. A slacker in class and a complete show-off. He'll be easy pickings, howeffar…"

"You doubt it will be ze same wiz ze ozziar 'Ogwarts champion," Jean murmured. "You're right. It won't be."

She gave a speculative glance. "Vhat do you know about him?"

"'Is father was definitely a Death Eater; 'e might 'ave been a bit more zen… _enthusiastic_ in 'is son's education."

Kurkov grunted. She gazed about, pausing. "He is in your class next, correct?"

Jean gave her a cool, calculating look. "I'll see what I can do."

She nodded shortly and straightened up, moving out into what small trickles of humanity still lingered in the halls, waiting until the last possible moment to dash to the their classes.

Jean entered his own class, searching the desks for a head of platinum blonde hair. In the back corner by the windows, Draco Malfoy was slumped into a chair, two other Slytherins beside him: a distant boy that seemed uninterested in everything and girl that was eyeing the table directly in front of her. Jean noticed that Orlando was seated there, looking for the entire world as if he had just fallen asleep. How convenient.

Moving to the back, Jean took the seat next to Orlando, the one nearest to the other tournament champion. The white and black haired boy beside him roused, looking about irritably.

"…class over already?" he groused upon sighting Jean.

"No. Go back to sleep, Orlando," he answered amusedly.

He shook his head and sat up slightly. "Nah, Headmistress gets on my ass whenever I sleep in class."

"We aren't in Headmistress's class," Jean said. "That was last period, remember?"

"Erg…" Orlando looked around, a slightly dazed expression in his eyes. "How'd I get here?"

"Your capabilities to survive despite your complete lack of an attention span never cease to amaze me, Berenger."

"Whatever." Orlando tucked his head back into the crook of his arm and promptly fell asleep again. The girl behind him gave a soft, fluttery sigh. Beside her, Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"Pole, you'd best tell your friend to stop doing absolutely nothing before Greengrass here faints," he gibed, sneering at the Slytherin girl.

She scowled at him. "Oh, what do you know, Malfoy! You wouldn't know a good-looking person from a troll!"

"So which species are you – mountain or forest?"

She rolled her eyes and ignored him, turning to Jean. "Don't mind him." She held out a hand. "I'm Daphne Greengrass. You're Jean Pole, of course."

"A pleasure," Jean said in English, kissing her knuckles instead of the shake she had expected. As he released her fingers, she giggled and smiled dreamily.

Malfoy snorted disgustedly. "Quite the charmer aren't you?"

"Oh shut up!" Greengrass retorted, flapping a hand at him. "He's just being courteous; that's not a word that enters _your _vocabulary often."

"At least I don't start drooling every time something vaguely pretty looks my way."

Greengrass turned her back to him and looked again at Jean. "Do you think you'll do well in the tournament?"

"And that's another thing!" Malfoy leaned forward, his eyes coldly watching Jean. "Fraternizing with the enemy!"

"The 'enemy'? Honestly, it's just a game!"

"A _game_? Woman, are you mad!"

"I don't see how having a friendly conversation makes me mad!"

"I didn't say that, I said – "

Jean conspicuously cleared his throat, looking at them pointedly. "Really, such bickering reminds one of an old married couple."

They both scowled at him.

"As if!" Daphne muttered.

"In her dreams!" jeered Malfoy.

"Well, to answer your question Mizz Greengrass," Jean began, "I can only 'ope zat my education and studies over ze years will able me to make something of an accomplishment in ze tournament… It is razzer unfortunate, zough, zat such experience 'as not been bestowed on one of ze ozzer champions…" He gave Malfoy a significant look. The blonde gazed back impassively, a faintly questioning look in his eyes.

Greengrass sneered here. "You mean Potty the Gryffindork. Yes, there's no doubt he's gonna be totally creamed."

"'Ow… _inconvenient_ for him it would be," added Jean, sounding completely unregretful, "if 'is impediments were taken advantage of." His tone was layered with silver-tongued insinuation that Malfoy clearly did not miss judging from his calculating and sharp look.

"I hope they are," quipped Greengrass, not noticing the underlying meanings. "That arrogant little Potter has been asking for it ever since he first set foot in Hogwarts. Strutting around and acting as if he owned the place – "

"Well, at least he consorts with his own kind!"

The speaker glared at them from a nearby cluster of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. His face was rapidly turning a color similar to his flaming red hair, the freckles dashed haphazardly across his cheeks standing out prominently. Jean vaguely recalled him from the other night.

Malfoy grinned at the tall boy arrogantly. "Got a problem, Weasley?"

"Yeah, Malfoy, I do!" he replied angrily. "Not like I actually give a crap about what you do, but you'd think that you'd have at least enough sense to stay away from – from – that Frenchman!"

"_What_ an insult!" Jean remarked sarcastically. Greengrass sniggered.

"And why would I do that, Weasel?" asked Malfoy coolly.

"You might be a _Slytherin_," Weasley said 'Slytherin' like a dirt swearword fit for a sailor, "but unfortunately, you're still from Hogwarts, too! Him"– He made a gesture a Jean – "and all those other Beauxbatons and Durmstrang gits are all out to get us!"

"Of course we are," Jean said reassuringly. "Don't mind ze 'orse 'ead in your bed tomorrow morning!"

Malfoy and Greengrass snickered loudly. They weren't the only ones; across the room the entire group of Durmstrang students were laughing harshly. Quite a few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were leering at the Gryffindor, as well.

A sandy-haired boy stepped up beside him, glaring at Malfoy and Jean. "Shut up! Both of you are nothing more than stuck-up and pampered little prats!"

"At least they don't put on false suppositions," a girl said, her Asiatic prettiness accentuated with a poisonous smile. "Or is that too big of a word for you, Finnigan, Weasley?"

"Oh, screw off, Li!" snapped another Gryffindor, his dark mocha skin standing out.

She turned her acidic smile to him. "I'd love to, Thomas, but I'm afraid you really aren't my type." This incited a large amount of raucous laughs.

Just then Karkaroff entered at last, shouting over the noise for them to sit. It seemed the headmaster of Durmstrang had an unpleasant tendency toward being late. The rest of class was whiled away in tense silence, the majority of the students turning a quick sneer at the small group of Gryffindors who ignored them all hotly. But it was to everyone's relief when the bell finally rang, freeing them from the bondage of schooling – for the rest of that day, at least.

Jean grabbed Orlando's shoulder to rouse him from the deep slumber he had gone under throughout the entire class – even through the loud taunts and laughter that had been directed at Weasley and his friends.

"I wasn't asleep, Madame Maxime!" he said loudly in French, jerking up.

Jean got up as he patted him on the shoulder. "Of course you weren't, Orlando."

He scowled up at Jean and made a rude hand gesture.

"I love you, too!" Jean replied cockily, grinning. "By the way, I recommend you stay away from Lealan for a few days."

"Why – "

"See you later, Berenger!"

And Jean disappeared within the rushing stampede of students heading to the door. Outside, Kurkov was waiting, her eyes searching for a head of neat black locks. Upon sighting him, she made a gesture to come nearer.

"Vell?" she demanded.

Jean inclined against the wall next to her, his eyes searching the crowd just as hers had. "I suggested it."

"Directly?"

He gave her a look. She snorted. "Neffar mind."

"By the vay," Kurkov continued, "I spoke a bit vith your little girlfriend. Interesting girl."

"Meri? I suppose _interesting_ is one way to describe 'er," Jean replied. "But she's not my girlfriend; we're only friends."

She looked at him, mild surprise registering across her handsome features. "Really?"

He shrugged. Of course, Meri and his closeness was sometimes confused with actual romantic affection, but it was truly only in a platonic way that they loved each other. "I guess you could say zat we've tried it before. It ended disastrously."

"Mmm." Kurkov looked away, not that interested in the details of any sort of love life.

The droves of students began to diminish into small packs, all chatting animatedly despite the monotony of a sleep-deprived and seemingly endless Monday. Eventually, Draco Malfoy exited the classroom, companionless. Seeing their watching, expectant eyes, he approached slowly, confidence evident in his swaggering stride.

Kurkov nodded at him curtly. "Vell, Malfoy?"

He studied them for a moment, his hard, silvery eyes sweeping over the pair. "You do know that, no matter what happens in secret, during the tasks you can't have any attachments or emotional misgivings? In the end, it's every man and woman for themselves."

Jean let a thin smile form over his lips. He shook his head and said, "Zat is a warning to zose 'oo are not at danger of such weaknesses. We know full well ze dangers _and_ ze advantages. You should decide for yourself if you are willing to take ze risk."

"And yet I still can't be sure that there _are_ advantages," Malfoy replied, glancing coldly back at Jean.

"Ve assure you, Mister Malfoy, there _are_," Kurkov smirked.

Suddenly, the sound of a large body hitting stone floor several times and loud yelps came to their ears, sounding eerily amplified in the empty corridor. All three stiffened and stared at where the sound had come from – around a corner. Malfoy glanced at them; Kurkov nodded. The blonde slid against the wall, his steps feather-light and silent. Nearing the corner, he peered around, scowled angrily, and moved forward aggressively, disappearing from both Jean's and Kurkov's sights.

A loud cry shot around the corner and Malfoy came into view, dragging a round-faced boy by the collar as he stumbled along in an attempt to keep up with the Slytherin's domineering strides. Reaching the other two, Malfoy pushed the boy up against the wall and pressed his hand onto the cold stone by his head. Kurkov moved around the blonde so that she could glare down at him over his arm and Jean stepped closer – all three forming a loose circle around him.

Jean sniffed derisively. "Is zis really necessary? So vairy school yard bully-esque."

Kurkov rolled her eyes and Malfoy ignored him completely.

"So, Longbottom," he whispered casually, his gray eyes icy, "how much did you hear?"

The boy stared at them wildly and stuttered, "N- Nothing! I- I didn't hear a- anything!"

Malfoy smiled predatorily. "Don't jerk me around, Longbottom. I'm not one to mess with. And with these two – don't even begin to think you'll get away unscathed."

"I- I was only c- coming down the steps when I tripped and th- then you came and I di- didn't hear anything!" Longbottom exclaimed rather shrilly. "H- Honest!"

"Just let 'im go already before 'e wets 'imself, Malfoy," Jean sighed.

The blonde glanced at him before nearing the boy menacingly. "Longbottom, if I've found that you're lying to me, I hope for your own sake that you've got a good insurance policy. Now get lost." He removed his hand beside Longbottom's ear and snapped, pointing down the hall.

He made to run off, but Kurkov grabbed him by the collar of his robe at the last moment. His feet made black skid marks against the marble as she pulled him toward her from behind, his desperate squeaks disregarded. She leaned forward and whispered to him in a tone barely audible to Jean and Malfoy.

"Boy, I'm not going to tell you vhat I'll do to you if I hear that you've effen mentioned the fact that the three of us vere effar together in one spot; like my friend here said, I doubt you'd be able to keep control of your bladder if I did. And I should varn you that I _vill _know if you do talk. I haff eyes efferyvhere. _Efferyvhere_."

"Y- yes," Longbottom squeaked.

"Good," Kurkov said, louder this time. "Now get out of my sight."

He ran pell-mell as soon as she released her vice-like grip on his robes, stumbling every once in a while. His loud and conspicuous footfalls echoed throughout the corridors until the faded away into a faint rhythm.

"What crude methods," Jean remarked to them disdainfully.

"Crude but effective," retorted Kurkov.

"Anything more subtle would have been lost on Longbottom," Malfoy said caustically.

"Vell," began Kurkov, turning sharply to the Slytherin once more, "you haff not given us a clear answer yet."

Malfoy said nothing for a moment, a shrewd look in his eyes. "We'll see."

And with that, he turned his back on them disappeared around the corner.

* * *

**A/N**: So sorry about not updating for so long! Turns out I have a bad memory. xD And this chapter was slightly shorter even! Not much action, either… Sorry. But! There _were_ some important scenes that you might not have noticed, or you did notice but can't yet know the real significance behind… erm. I should probably stop now. Heh.And it was very hastily edited, so sorry for any mistakes. D: 

But the next chapter will be good! Chock full of action! Or maybe rather important events… or something. Hrm. But I do promise to put the first task in the next chapter to make up for this one! Promise! It might take a while, but it'll happen!

**Next Chapter**: The Weighing of the Wands, more info about Jean's life in France, the first Hogsmeade weekend, and the First Task.

(I'll be doing this 'Next Chapter' thing from now on to tell you what you have to look forward to!)


	5. Apprehension

**We, In Faith**

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter Five**: Apprehension

* * *

The Thursday dusk swept over the Hogwarts grounds like a chilly embrace. The barely visible moon was just beginning its trek across the sky, the supple near-fullness of its body shimmering as the sun gleamed just on the horizon, descending slowly into a miraculous, fiery sunset. The flame-like scarlet and gold hues gave an uncomfortable contrast with the coolness of the quiet evening, much to the regret of those who were accustomed to far warmer temperatures. Such individuals had no choice but to bunker down in the coziness of the great indoors. 

No doubt the students of Beauxbatons would have preferred to be curling up in a comfortable armchair in front of a roaring fire with a good book rather than waiting stiffly, backs straight, for their headmistress to make an appearance and finally begin dinner.

Jean suppressed the urge to sigh loudly; several of the others made no such effort. He glanced down the crystal and Egyptian cotton adorned table, the glare from the silverware snagging in his glasses. Primped and groomed, his classmates did not look like a group of refined diners but more like bored and spaced-out teenagers. A foot suddenly glanced across his shin gently from under the table.

As Jean looked up, across the table, Meri grinned and rolled her eyes dramatically. He smiled back softly and shook his head. She pouted silently until the empty seat next to Jean caught her eye. She gave him a questioning look. Jean shrugged slightly in a way that was barely noticeable to the untrained eye. Then quiet, hurried footsteps sounded against the marble behind Jean and the vacant seat was pulled out as its new occupant slipped in silently.

The boy gave Jean a sheepish grin, his almond-shaped eyes the color of black silk apologetic. His caramel-auburn hair and rather pale skin seemed ill fitted to the exotic features of his face.

Jean leaned over slightly to whisper, "Cutting it terribly close, aren't you, Izumi?"

"Someone failed to wake me up from my dozing like I told them too," he whispered back, frowning at Jacques a few seats down. The French flowed from his mouth smoothly, barely feathered with a slight accent. Jacques disregarded his gaze completely while he stared at the crystal chandelier above with rapt attention.

"You should know better than to trust Lealan with even that simple of a task," Jean said, rolling his eyes.

Izumi chuckled softly and replied, "You're right. I've no idea what I was thinking."

The sound of a great door being opened interrupted them. The students quickly rose to their feet, pushing back their chairs with the grace of experience. Madame Maxime entered, her impressive bulk diminishing the size of the large dining hall. She moved forward, steps light-footed, and ran her eyes over her pupils critically.

"Good evening, students," she intoned in her brassy, supple voice.

"Good evening, Headmistress," they answered. Diamonds and rubies shimmered in the candlelight as she waved a hand, signaling for them to seat themselves once more. The students sat back down as Madame Maxime settled herself in her position at the head of the table, Jean at her right and Meri at her left.

A side door exiting from the hall opened and a line of house elves marched in, each carrying a covered platter. At the head of the queue, two elves carried the largest of the platters forward and presented it to Headmistress respectfully. She carefully removed the metallic cover with great ease. Warm steam and wafts of delicious aromas spilt from the dish as Jean glimpsed the tantalizing shine of a glazed roast. Headmistress nodded in approval and another elf hurried forward to set up a stand to support the roast while his companions began to uncover their own dishes. They lined up once more to present them to Madame Maxime.

Soon, every plate was filled and arranged identically with delicious and fragrant foods. However, they all sat perfectly still as they waited for their Headmistress's sign to begin. As soon as it was granted, the quiet chinking of metal against crystal and soft conversation drifted through the warm atmosphere.

Taking a prefatory sip from his glass of spring water, Jean glanced back over at Izumi as he carefully sliced his way through his portion of roast, the tint of the glaze washing the knife in a luscious orange. Izumi looked up, his meat-laden fork resting on the china edge of his plate.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

Jean shook his head and took up his own silverware. "It's nothing. I just still can't believe you let your sisters do that to your hair."

An annoyed expression formed over his face. "It was all Fuuko's idea. It always is. My mother nearly had a heart attack when she saw it, but then they told her why and she just laughed at me." Izumi chewed on his meat, swallowed it, and then sighed heavily. "Apparently everyone's doing it, but I don't see why they had to include me in _everyone_."

"Why don't you just change it back?" Jean inquired.

"They'd kill me if I did." A faint tinge of red appeared on his cheeks. "I wish I could have at least one sister like yours, Jean."

"You mean Cordelia?" Jean asked, mildly surprised. "She's not my sister, though."

"She might as well be," replied Izumi. "Right?"

"What was that about Cordelia?" Meri asked from across them.

"I was just saying that I wished my sisters were more like her," Izumi answered, sipping at his water.

Meri laughed. "Only in your dreams, Izumi."

He sighed mournfully and nodded in agreement.

"That reminds me, Jean," Meri added, turning to him, "have you been owling Lawrence and Cordelia?"

"I sent a letter to Lawrence a while ago that he still hasn't answered," Jean began, his brows knitting, "and a few to Cordelia. She replied once, but I think she's keeping quiet about something. She always was a horrible liar."

Meri frowned, her eyes concerned. "Do you think something's happened?"

Jean shook his head. "No, Lawrence would have told me if anything serious had come up. Whatever it is shouldn't be that difficult for him to handle. He _is_ quite capable, you know."

"You're probably right," she said, looking relieved.

"Besides," Izumi added, "It's only been a little under two weeks since your name came out of the goblet. They might not have had the time to properly owl you, and it _is_ a lot further away from France here."

Meri nodded and Jean decided to change the subject. "You know, Izumi, now that I think about it, I haven't seen you around that much."

He flushed again and coughed self-consciously. "Well, ah, that's because I've been… hiding…"

"Hiding? From what?" Meri demanded.

"Er, well," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, "there's this Chinese girl up at Hogwarts that keeps following me around. She's somehow convinced that I'm lying about being Japanese. I mean, do I honestly look Chinese?"

"Umm…" Meri trailed off uncomfortably.

"No, you look Japanese," Jean said, chuckling. "Just with an odd complexion."

Izumi scowled faintly. "It's the French in my genes."

"How can you tell the difference?" asked Meri irritably.

Jean smiled faintly. "You have to get an eye for it." She rolled her eyes.

"But anyway," continued Jean, "does this girl happen to have the surname 'Li'?"

"Yes, Su Li, I think," Izumi said. "Why? Do you know her? Because if you do – "

"Not personally, no," Jean interrupted, "but I suppose you could say I've had a little run-in with her."

"She's gotten after you, too?" he asked sympathetically.

"No," Jean laughed. He explained about the scene during their inter-school classes. Meri, who had heard about it already, looked away after a while, bored.

When he finished, Izumi sighed, saying, "That's just my luck. I get harassed by crazy girls and then miss out when something actually entertaining happens."

The rest of the evening was spent with good-humored banter and random snatches of chatter; all accented with the carefully prepared delicacies and food laid out over the table that a ready and willing house elf would serve to one. Eventually, the talk died down, the plates emptied, and Headmistress stood up to dismiss them. They scattered, forming small groups or pairs to make the short walk together across the now star and moonlit grass to their respective carriages.

Before he could leave, however, Madame Maxime made a small gesture to Jean for him to come closer for a moment. He quickly signaled for Meri and Izumi to go on without him and approached his headmistress.

"Jean, I wanted to remind you that the Weighing of the Wands will be tomorrow afternoon," she said softly, which for Headmistress meant in reality not very softly at all. "I trust that you've prepared for it? It might not seem like it would be of much importance, but it will be helpful to make a good impression on the press…" _'Or, don't screw up in the eye of the public!'_ Jean thought dryly.

Jean nodded respectfully. "Of course, Headmistress."

"Good, now go and get some rest," Headmistress said firmly. Jean bowed and left, his steps quiet against the smooth marble.

* * *

Draco propped his head against his fist, seriously contemplating falling asleep. He glanced over at Theodore Nott beside him, already miles ahead. Nott's inaudible snores were making the pages of the book before his slumbering face flutter and fall in a rhythmic pattern that was faintly mesmerizing if stared at too long. 

At the head of the class, their substitute teacher looked as if she wanted to do just the same. She had a gaudy magazine in her hand, and her eyes had a rather glassy look. Draco couldn't remember when it was last that she had turned the page.

Even he had to admit that Lupin would have been more interesting than this blonde, idiot sham of a teacher. But he had taken a few days off because of some illness or other. The man seemed to be constantly getting sick; that, combined with his obviously premature wrinkles and age lines, did nothing but ravage his weary face. At least Lupin dressed properly. Draco doubted he would even be able to take the sight of the professor if he were got up like some sort of vagabond.

Most people would take such a thought as nothing more than pompous arrogance; 'twas a pity that the modern world had completely lost its sense of aestheticism.

An abrupt knock on the classroom door interrupted Draco's thoughts. A small, third year girl crept in, looking up at the rows of seventh years apprehensively. She stood in front of the teacher, who paid her no mind, and cleared her throat nervously.

The blonde woman jerked her head up. "Wha…?"

"Urm, please ma'am, I'm supposed ter take Draco Malfoy over to where all them Ministry peoples are. 'Cause he's a champion, see…"

"Uh, sure… I guess…" She ran a hand through her hair roughly and went back to her magazine.

Draco picked up his bag and hastily stuffed his book inside. Slinging it over his shoulder, he practically dashed to the door. The girl ran after him and grabbed the door before it could close, slipping outside.

"Hurry up!" Draco snapped as she slowly shut the door to keep it from making a loud bang. "You're the one that's supposed to lead me, remember!"

"Sorry, sir, Mr. Draco Malfoy, sir!" she squeaked, sounding eerily similar to the Malfoy house elf. The girl scurried forward, setting off for the entrance hall.

"What house are you in?" he demanded. He could easily keep up with her hurried, stumbling pace with his own casual and long strides.

She glanced up at him, her eyes saucer-like. "Hufflepuff, sir!"

He snorted. "Typical. What do 'them Ministry peoples' want, then?"

"I think they're takin' pictures or somefin." The Hufflepuff girl shrugged. "The _Daily Prophet_ maybes." _Charming little bugger_.

The soon reached the right room and the girl turned her saucer eyes back up. "Good luck, sir! Even though I'm not supposed ter support ya, 'cause you're a Slytherin and Potter's a Gryffindor and whatnot, but good luck anyways!" She scampered off, her braids bouncing and whipping about. Draco rolled his eyes and entered through the door.

He was in a rather cramped classroom; most of the grimy desks had been pushed away into the back of the room, leaving a barely spacious area in the middle; three of them, however, had been placed end-to-end in front of the dusty blackboard and covered with a shabby length of velvet. Five chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered desks, and Ludo Bagman was sitting in one of them, talking to a garishly dressed witch Draco recognized as the obnoxious reporter Rita Skeeter.

Jean Pole and Monika Kurkov where perched nearby on a couple of desks, both intent on a low-toned conversation. They looked up as Draco entered and watched him expectantly. He grimaced and wandered nearer, ignoring the cheery wave Bagman gave him. He scowled absently at a paunchy man fiddling with a camera in the corner.

"Vell, if it isn't the Hogwarts champion!" Kurkov exclaimed, amused for some reason.

"_One_ of ze 'Ogwarts champions, you mean," corrected Pole, giving Draco a thin smirk.

He sneered back at him. "Don't compare me with that sniveling little brat, Pole."

"It vould be nice if that certain sniffaling little brat vould make his grand arriffal so ve could get on vith this already," grumbled Kurkov irritably.

"'Ow long 'ave you known about ze Weighing of ze Wands, zen Malfoy?" Pole asked nonchalantly. Draco gazed back at him, not fooled by his apparently casual manner. If he wanted to see how far reaching Draco's intelligence resources were, then so be it. He did concede on one thing, though – the boy had finesse.

"Ever since my father first told me about the Triwizard," Draco finally said, pushing himself up onto a desk.

"I suppose ze Malfoy name does count for something," Pole chuckled; though that laugh did not reach his eerily green eyes.

"Speaking of names," began Draco, choosing to ignore the almost-jibe, "don't you think 'Jean Pole' is rather odd?"

"Vhy vould it be?" Kurkov asked, confused.

"Zair is anozzair French name similair to it – 'Jean-Paul'," he explained irately. "A foriegnair would not notice ze difference, but a native might confuse it…"

"Strange way to name a child," Draco remarked.

Pole scowled. "'Jean' is not my first name; only ze one I go by."

"Vhat is it then?" Kurkov inquired, although only mildly interested.

"'Arviel." His voice was stiff and frost blanketed the tone.

"_Harviel_?" Draco said, arching a brow dubiously. "That's not French."

"No, it is not," replied Pole. He eyed Draco for a moment before continuing. "You seem to know much about ze French, Malfoy."

He shrugged carelessly. "I've summered there a few times."

Just then someone shoved the door open, causing it to bang loudly against the wall. Ainsley Potter ambled in aimlessly, his sneakers making irritating squeaks against the stone floor. He stared at them all curiously.

Bagman suddenly sighted him, got up quickly, and bounded forward.

"Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Ainsley, in you come… Nothing terribly exciting but still rather more interesting than double potions; it's just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment – "

"Wand weighing?" Potter repeated blankly.

"It is razzer sad, isn't it?" Pole murmured. "'Is complete lack of simple knowledge about ze competition…"

"All to our advantage," answered Kurkov, sneering at Potter.

" – that your wands are fully functional, no problems, you know, as they're your most important tools in the tasks ahead," Bagman was explaining. "The expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there's going to be a little photo shoot. This is Rita Skeeter," he added, gesturing at her. "She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the _Daily Prophet_…"

"Maybe not _that_ small, Ludo," said Skeeter, her eyes on Potter. "I wonder if I could have a little word with Ainsley before we start? The youngest champion, you know… to add a bit of color?"

"Certainly!" cried Bagman. "That is – if Ainsley has no objection?"

"Sure!" Potter chirped. He had a disgustingly smug and idiotic grin plastered across his face.

"Wonderful!" Skeeter exclaimed, and in a second, she had her scarlet-taloned fingers on his arm. She steered him quickly out the door.

"Sickening," Draco remarked scathingly.

"Too true," said Pole, his voice clipped. "Tell me, 'oo will zis 'expert' be?"

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "I guess it'll be Ollivander."

"As in 'Ollivander's Wands'?" asked Pole.

"The one and only," he answered, bored.

"Vhat – " Kurkov began but was cut off when the door opened once more, though much more quietly this time. A bespectacled, dusky-haired man and a crimson-curled woman entered, looking slightly out of breath.

"Lily, James!" Bagman said sunnily as he moved forward to shake their hands. "Run a marathon, did you?"

"No, Ludo," James Potter laughed, gripping his hand. "It's just that Lily here decided to simply wolf down every bit of food available back home."

The woman smacked her husband on the arm, grinning. "Oh, shut up, James. I was just a tad hungry is all. Then I was simply terrified that we would be late, you know."

"Well, as you can see, the judges haven't even arrived yet," commented Bagman.

For the first time, the Potters took a good look around and finally sighted the little group that Draco, Kurkov, and Pole had made. Beside him, Draco could feel Pole stiffen almost unnoticeably. The Potters both swallowed nervously when they saw the Beauxbatons champion. Draco glanced between them, curious. He suddenly distinguished a definite resemblance between the three of them. How queer.

"Ah…" James said, glancing surreptitiously at Pole, "where's Ainsley, then?"

"Oh, he's giving Rita an interview!" Bagman chuckled.

"Rita Skeeter? The reporter?" said Lily, her smile strained.

"The same!" said Bagman.

"I see…"

"I AM _NOT_ CRYING!"

The door burst open once more and Ainsley tramped in looking thoroughly peeved.

"Ainsley?" Lily asked in a concerned and surprised tone.

"Hey, Mum," he answered through gritted teeth, shuffling nearer. Rita Skeeter soon followed after him, throwing the youngest Potter a dirty glare. He returned the favor.

Skeeter huffed angrily and caught sight of the other champions staring at the little scene with amusement. She instantly gained a rather forced smile. Approaching them, her sequined heels clacked loudly against the marble and her false (at least that was what Draco hoped) alligator skin bag swung off her arm.

"Well, well, well!" Skeeter said, her heavy and rather tacky perfume practically gagging them. "What a striking trio you three make!"

"Er… thanks…" Kurkov trailed off, staring at the woman with distaste.

"I was wandering if I could have a quick word?" she asked eagerly, pulling out a sheet of parchment and a Quick-Quotes Quill from her bag and setting them down on a nearby desk. Without waiting for their reply she continued on, "So, as, dare I say, _legitimate_ contestants in the competition, how do you feel about someone so young becoming an unheard of _fourth_ champion?"

Pole gave them a meaningful quick glance before answering, "It is vairy troubling. Because 'e is clearly far too young to compete! Ze British Ministry might 'ave made as many efforts as zey could to insure a safer experience zis time, but zey were counting on ze fact zat ze champions would all be fully able to contend. I'm afraid zat zis Potter will not 'ave 'ad ze necessiary experience zat should allow 'im to stand any chance at all in ze tasks ahead."

Across the room, the Potters and Bagman were chatting amiably but shooting them inquisitive looks now and then. The youngest Potter kept glaring obstinately at Skeeter.

The upright quill at Skeeter's hand flew deftly across the page, recording Pole's every word. Its owner smiled, her teeth oddly sharp. "You've quite a way with words! I don't believe _I_ could have written anything better! Miss Kurkov?"

"I think it's a bit of an insult," said Kurkov, tossing her wan hair back with irritation. "Ve came here to Hogwarts to compete honorably. But how can ve after this whole 'fourth champion' affair? Ve trained hard, ve studied endlessly, and ve _vurked_"– here she slapped her hand against the desk for emphasis – "for our right to be in the Triwizard. This thirteen year old boy gained it simply by some veird stroke of luck!"

They turned to Draco expectantly. Pole gave him a significant look. _Good cop, bad cop? Hell, why not?_

"These two haven't been around here for as long as I have," he began, putting on the charming smile he usually reserved for the tittery wives of high Ministry officials, "but I speak from experience when I say that Ainsley Potter really doesn't deserve such an privilege as being a tournament champion. I am completely sincere when I say that all of us truly do sympathize with the Potters' lose so many years ago, but I believe all of the fame and publicity from that _tragic_ event has gone a bit to Ainsley's head. He's constantly showing off during classes, strutting about the castle – in short, I just really don't think that these new circumstances will help his – ah, _mentality_."

Skeeter smiled her crocodile smile again. "And how –"

She was interrupted as the door creaked open, exhausted from all of the traffic, and several people entered, causing the already cramped quarters to seem even smaller. Dumbledore, Crouch, Madame Maxime, Karkaroff, and a wizened old wizard with large pale eyes that Draco faintly remembered from when he was eleven – all entered, quietly conferring among themselves.

Bagman stepped forward, grinning widely. "I see all the party's here! No one's missing then, Dumbledore, old chap?"

"No, everyone is present, Ludo," chuckled Dumbledore. He nodded to everyone in the room then gestured toward the makeshift table in the center of the room. "If all of the judges will please be seated then? James, could you be so kind as to move some chairs over here for the champions? That's excellent."

As his headmistress stepped toward the velvet-covered desks, Pole leapt down from his seat to quickly pull back a chair for her. Madame Maxime nodded her handsome head to him and carefully lowered herself down into the rickety and long unused desk chair. She made a gesture for him to lean forward and made a quiet comment in his ear.

Rita Skeeter moved away from them, settling down in a corner and smoothing a new piece of parchment over her knee. She set her Quick-Quotes Quill down on the paper and her eyes on the other occupants of the room. Draco and Kurkov left their perches atop the dusty desks and sat in the chairs James Potter had set up near the door. The youngest champion, already seated, received disparaging glances from them both. Pole soon joined them, taking the empty chair between Draco and Potter.

"May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?" said Dumbledore, taking his place at the judges' table and talking to the champions. "He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament."

Ollivander stepped out into the middle of the room and nodded to them slightly. "Miss Kurkov, could we have you first, please?"

Kurkov strode forward and handed him her wand.

"Aah," said Ollivander, "a Gregorovitch creation, if I'm not mistaken. A fine wand-maker, though the styling is not quite I… however…"

He lifted the wand and examined it minutely, turning it over and over in his eyes.

"Yes… rosewood and dragon heartstring?" he shot at Kurkov, who nodded brusquely. "Quite thinner than one usually sees… yet very unyielding… eleven and a half inches…" He twirled the wand and arrows shot out, leaping out the window as if guided.

"Capital." Ollivander handed the wand back to Kurkov. "Mister Malfoy, you next."

Draco strolled forward, passing Kurkov as she swept back to her seat. He slipped his wand from his sleeve and passed it to Ollivander.

"This is one of mine, now, isn't it?" said Ollivander, much more enthusiastically. "A particularly potent dragon heartstring; from a Chinese Fireball, if I recall… Twelve inches on the dot… ebony… sturdy and reliable¹… _Serpensortia_." A small, slender garden snake emerged from the tip of his wand and plopped to the floor, slithering about.

Behind him, Draco could hear a sharp intake of breath. He turned his head to see that Pole had gone rather pale and had his eyes riveted on the harmless serpent. But then Ollivander flicked Draco's wand and the snake disappeared.

"Mister Pole, if you please."

Receiving his wand once more, Draco passed the Beauxbatons champion, who had tinged back to his normal color, on his way up. He slipped into his seat beside Kurkov as Pole offered up his wand to Ollivander.

"Oh, now, this! This one I remember very, very clearly…" he said, smiling and pale eyes aglow. "Quite the picky customer, weren't you? Received an owl one day about six years ago from a certain other wand-maker in France, all a-fluster because he simply could not fit a young boy out with a wand. He described that boy's measurements and I specially sent what wands I thought might be suitable. Then, imagine to my amazement when _this_ particular wand was chosen… I only really sent it on a whim, you know, but…" He trailed off to an audible murmur, going over the wand minutely. He spared no inch of it, examining carefully – reverently, almost.

"Yes, yes… Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple," Ollivander went on. "In near pristine condition… you treat it regularly?"

"Every week," replied Pole, neutral.

"Good! Most excellent…" said Ollivander, still going over the wand. "Young people nowadays never take proper care of their wands, the most essential tool in their lives! Not that you'll oft find an _adult_ who'll give theirs the consideration you have…"

A seat over, Potter coughed nervously and tried to polish his grubby wand on the hem of his sleeve. It began shooting off pink sparks and Draco sneered at him contemptuously. He glared back. Several of the _adults_ in the room also looked rather shame-faced.

Ollivander inspected Pole's wand for a while more before making a fountain of wine shoot out of it. He handed it back but held on for a moment longer saying slowly, "Keep taking good care of this wand, my boy. There is a great destiny set before it." Those pale eyes must have been incredibly eerie so near, but Pole nodded politely anyway.

"That leaves… Mister Potter."

Pole sat back down beside Draco as Potter stepped forward to relinquish his wand to Ollivander's examination.

Draco leaned over slightly to whisper, "Snakephobia², Pole?"

"Shut up," he muttered, scowling. "It is my only irrational fear."

"Sprouted from some sort of childhood trauma, no doubt."

"Yes, in fact."

"Eh, those sorts of things always are."

" – cherry… unicorn tail hair, ten and a third inches… swishy…" Ollivander was saying, scrutinizing Potter's wand. "Like your mother's, excellent for charm work… though, I somehow doubt it is being put to such work." He glanced at the Gryffindor boy critically. "Hmm… _Flagrate_." Ollivander waved the wand about, drawing a complex design in the air with levitating flames. He flicked Potter's wand again, and the flames disappeared.

"It is perfectly functional," he said, handing it back, "but you might want to polish it every now and then."

"Sure…" Potter grumbled, sitting back down.

"Thank you all," said Dumbledore, standing up at the judges' table. "You may go back to your lessons now – or perhaps it would be quicker to just go down to dinner, as they are about to end –"

Free to leave the dingy room at last, Draco leapt to his feet, but the man with the black camera jumped up and cleared his throat.

"Photos, Albus, photos!" cried Bagman excitedly. "All the judges, aurors, and champions, what do you think, Rita?"

"Er – yes, let's do those first," said Rita Skeeter, whose eyes where upon Pole, Kurkov, and Draco again. "And then perhaps some individual shots."

The photographs took an excruciatingly long time. Madame Maxime cast everyone else into shadow wherever she stood, and the photographer couldn't stand far enough back to get her into the frame; eventually she had to sit while everyone else stood around her. Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra curl, and, strangely enough, Lily seemed ready to vomit each time Skeeter and her nauseating perfume passed her. Which was often, as the reporter kept buzzing around, trying to get the _legitimate_ champions out in the front. Then she insisted on separate shots of all the competitors in the tournament. At last, they were free to go. Or, rather, Potter Jr. was free to go.

Before they could slip out the door, Skeeter blocked their path, her smile false and jagged. They spent the next twenty minutes giving her a painstaking interview, going over the most ridiculous and trivial things. From the hours spent on studying to Pole's rather funny (at least Draco thought so) anecdote about Potter dumping leftover Aging Potion on his friend.

"All right, that should be it!" Skeeter said cheerfully, placing her parchment and quill back in her alligator handbag. She made a signal to her photographer and they left, Skeeter's clacking heels audible even after she vacated the room. The remaining champions rushed to the door, as well.

"Um, could you wait a minute, ah… Jean…?"

Draco glanced back and saw that the Potters still remained in the room for some reason, seated far off in the corner where they wouldn't have heard anything from the interview. They were both watching Pole apprehensively. He shrugged at Kurkov and Draco, motioning for them to go on.

Draco gave Pole a smug smirk before leaving, although inside, he was wildly curious about the Potters' peculiar interest in this boy from France.

* * *

"Have fun?" 

Dropping heavily into a large, leather armchair, Jean grimaced at Izumi from across the table. The crackling and popping of the flames within the hearth was a comfort after the frigidity of the Hogwarts castle. The warmth of the boys' common room, while not as spacious and grand as Madame Maxime's, was inviting and the soft chatter of his classmates was soothing on his ears.

"Hardly," Jean said, massaging the temples of his forehead.

Izumi smiled sympathetically and rubbed the head of an owl resting on his wrist. The bird was gazing at Jean with golden hawk eyes, twitching its long tail and ruffling its feathery, barred breast. The owl gave a tittery, high-pitched hoot and flapped its sharp-pointed wings to propel itself rather inelegantly onto the arm of Jean's chair.

"Hello, Roch²…" murmured Jean as the owl nipped at his fingers.

"He just flew in now," Izumi said, picking up a yellow parchment envelope off the mass of scattered books and essays on the table. "He was carrying that."

Jean accepted the slightly rumpled letter, ignoring Roch as he continued to peck at his robes. He slit it open and carefully extracted the crisp sheet of parchment.

_Dear Jean,_

_Congratulations on being chosen as the champion. I'm sorry I haven't written as much lately; a bit of trouble has arisen, I'm afraid. Old Uncle Allan has suddenly decided to go off on a ridiculous romp in the Americas. He has declared that he shall never return, leaving our dear Cordelia quite homeless._

_Custody was given to the Madame, but for some reason Mother wants little to nothing to do with her. She is trying to give her over to Elaine, but you know she never forgave Cordelia's father for making a fool out of her all those years ago. And speaking of the Engdahls, not one of them will come forward to claim custody. Mother is still mailing them, so perhaps it would only be a matter of time. I've been trying myself to take her, but, as you know, the Madame is entirely all too old-fashioned; she believes it would be 'improper'. I mean really, for God's sake…_

_But anyway, I don't think I would be able to gain custody even with her consent. Our betrothal doesn't stand very high in the eyes of the law. Not that that matters much – I had expected it to break down far sooner than this. These old traditional pairings always do. Despite that, I had hoped that I could have been counted as close enough through family ties to gain custody, but apparently it is not so. Either that or they believe that I'm too young to take on such a responsibility._

_Well, nothing has been decided yet and it isn't over; I'll keep on trying and hopefully we'll be able bring Cordelia home with us. I had assumed you wouldn't mind, forgive me… but you really wouldn't, would you?_

_Again, I'm sorry for not writing sooner. Everything has been such a mess that I just could not find the time. But don't let yourself become distracted about this; you'll need your wits about you for the competition. And I'm sure everything will turn out fine._

_Good luck,_

_Lawrence_

Scowling, Jean cursed under his breath.

"What is it?"

He looked up at Izumi, who seemed concerned, and shook his head. He tossed the letter over to him, standing up with Roch gripping his arm.

"Read it yourself," Jean said irately. "You don't happen to know where Meri is, do you?"

* * *

Sirius shuffled through the snow, gazing about with a somewhat sinking heart. Not that anyone about him shared the sentiment; on the contrary, the multitude of students rushing about, laughing, chatting animatedly, or window-shopping were simply happy that the first Hogsmeade weekend had finally arrived. Their talk mostly revolved around the excitement that came with the first task of the Triwizard only days away. Quoting Rita Skeeter's latest high profile article also seemed to be a favorite topic. 

_"…so, in short, it really is a shame that such an arrogant, overtly self-confident, and childish boy such as Ainsley Potter has gained the undeserved chance to compete in this year's Triwizard. He has no doubt gained such a chance under less than respectable circumstances, of which we may never learn the full truth of because of certain loopholes that Mr. Potter has slipped his wily self through…"_

The entire article went on in such a manner, disparaging remarks against Ainsley slung about with no consideration to whether or not they were true. The other three champions, however, were lifted up on golden pedestals, describing them as "the charming and refined Jean Pole", "Monika Kurkov, the proud and dauntless girl from Durmstrang", and "the genteel Draco Malfoy from one of the most upstanding and prominent families in Britain". Sirius's ears were still ringing from the Howlers Ainsley had received.

Sighing, he stuffed his hands into his robe pockets and gazed around at the little village shops with faint trepidation. Throughout the hustle and bustle of school lessons and grading homework, neither Remus nor Sirius had had a chance to speak with Jean again since the werewolf had taken that letter down to Madame Maxime and Lily and James had apologized after the Weighing of the Wands. Since Hogsmeade weekends were generally times where students tended to relax, Moony had suggested that Sirius go down to the village and see if he could catch a quick word with the boy.

"How do you even know if the Beauxbatons students will be allowed to go?" he had said.

"I talked with Dumbledore; he said that Madame Maxime decided to give her students a break."

"Then why don't _you_ go? You're better at that kind of thing than I am."

Remus had smiled. "Just go. I think, in this case, you'd do better than I would."

Generally, Sirius tended to trust his friend's judgement, but he wasn't so sure this time. This whole situation was so precarious that he was positive that Remus's habit of saying the right things at the right time would be more beneficial than Sirius's penchant for awkward, botched, and sometimes tasteless comments. But he had already promised give it a try, so he had no choice but to scuffle about the merry streets, peering into shop windows to see if he could recognize a pair of metal framed, green eyes or a head of smooth and silky black hair.

Finally, through the rather musty glass of an old art shop window, Sirius caught a glance of Jean browsing through a stack of prints. He hurried up to the door, snow snagging onto his long hair. A bell tinkled cheerfully overhead as Sirius stepped inside to find it was comfortably warm and cozy while a bit confined. Dozens of framed paintings leaned against the walls, oriental vases and miniature sculptures were scattered about, and the shelves were lined with various, delicate curiosities.

"Can I help you with something?"

An aged, faintly pot-bellied warlock was standing behind the counter, his smile friendly.

Sirius shook his head and said, "Just looking."

Still skimming through the prints, Jean looked up at his voice, a questioning eyebrow arched. Biting his lip nervously, Sirius moved near as casually as he could. He opened his mouth to say something but found he really had no idea where to start.

"Zat is a good way to catch flies, you know," Jean said, obviously amused.

Sirius quickly shut his mouth, realizing he probably looked like a fish. He grinned sheepishly.

"Sorry. It's just that places like this always give me the willies."

"Ze 'willies'?" asked Jean quizzically.

"It creeps me out," Sirius explained.

The boy turned back to the prints. "And why would zey do zat, Professor?"

"Just call me Sirius," he said firmly. "Only my students call me 'Professor', and even then it makes me feel old. And I dunno… I guess the quietness reminds me too much of library study sessions."

"Places like zis – art shops – zey shouldn't _'ave_ to be so quiet," Jean remarked, frowning. "True appreciation for art is a dying art in itself."

"You're probably right," said Sirius as he gazed about and noted how dusty everything suddenly looked. "I've never been all that big on paintings and things, myself."

"You don't 'ave to be to acknowledge art," the boy replied, setting back down the pictures he held and dusting off his hands. "Art is not only in ze the brush strokes of ze paintair or ze melodies of ze musician. It is in everything; life is the essence of Art and human emotion is its blood." He moved down the rows of shelves, inspecting trinkets and other odds and ends.

"You have a passion for art, then?" Sirius asked as he followed the boy.

Jean glanced back at him. "I suppose you could put it like zat. But really, I am only a passing connoisseur."

"Still, I think it's good that you can take such an interest in something," said Sirius. "I know that I never really knew what I wanted; it just seemed like nothing could hold my attention for long. Sometimes it still seems like that."

Pausing, Jean studied him for a moment. "Thank you…"

Wait, had he actually said something right for once? Sirius smiled embarrassedly. "Um, yeah…"

The boy looked away, amused again. Sighting the store clerk, he stepped up to the counter. "Excuse me."

"Yes?" said the warlock pleasantly.

"I was wondering if you 'ad any fixed paintings?" Jean inquired.

"'Fixed paintings'?" Sirius asked, confused.

"Paintings zat were not enchanted by ze artist," he explained.

"Like a muggle's?"

"Yes…"

The clerk stood up from his seat behind the register. "Well, I did get a couple in last week. They're in the back right now. I'll go get them for you." He exited through a door to the rear of the store.

"What do you need a muggle painting for?" questioned Sirius.

Jean looked at him briefly and leaned against the countertop. "I'm checking for something."

Sirius would have asked more but the clerk came out, his torso hidden by the few paintings he was lugging. Panting slightly, he carefully laid them down on the counter, side by side. There were only three.

"I'm sorry that there aren't many," wheezed the warlock. "Demand for the fixed ones isn't very high, you know. It's pity, if you ask me. They have a nice, antique-y feel to them."

"Yes…" Jean murmured distractedly. He was examining one of the paintings closely, his face inches from it. It was a depiction of a glen filled to the brim with tall, star-shaped white flowers and in the background lay a brilliant red sky. Jean feathered his hand against a signature in the corner. He looked up at the clerk sharply.

"Where did you get zis one from?" Jean demanded.

"From a friend in Amsterdam," he answered, looking surprised.

Jean looked back down at the signature closely. "Did 'e tell you anyzing about it?"

"No, just asked me if I wanted it…" the clerk said.

"No ozzair name of ze artist…?" he asked.

The pudgy little wizard shook his head, perplexed. "There was just the signature. I can't really make it out, you know, but I think that's an 'M' it starts with – "

"Marsyas," Jean asserted.

"Bless you…?" trailed off Sirius uncertainly.

The boy scowled at him. "' Marsyas' is ze name of a satyr from Greek mythology. It is a pseudonym ze artist took on. 'E was a wizard zat chose not to enchant 'is paintings."

"Are you studying this particular artist?" the clerk asked.

Jean glanced at him. "I am collecting 'is paintings."

"Oh, well, if you'll leave your name with me, I can owl my friend to ask him more about how he got this one."

"I would be grateful if you would…" He took out a velvet purse from his sleeve. "It looks fairly genuine, so I'll purchase it."

After paying for the painting and exchanging names with the clerk, Jean placed a shrinking charm on it so that it would fit easily into his pocket.

"Ze wintair weazzair is 'ard on paintings," he explained.

They stepped together out into the snow, the bone-chilling wind slapping them in the face. Sirius's teeth started to chatter as he rubbed his shivering arms.

"Would you like get a butterbeer?" he offered.

Jean shook his head. "I'm sorry; I already 'ave plans wiz friends."

"Ah, I see. Well, good luck on Monday, then!"

"Thank you… but you might want to keep your voice lowair…" He gestured to the faintly scandalized group of Hufflepuffs nearby.

"I guess I'll just be heading back to the castle then," Sirius laughed. He left to trudge back through the snow, waving at Jean in farewell.

* * *

¹ - I could not, for the life of me, find any mentions about what type of wand Draco has, so I just made something up. If you can tell me where there's a reputable source on this, please do! 

² - Also called 'Ophidiophobia'.

* * *

**A/N**: Okay, so I lied. No First Task in this chapter, but I decided to add a few more scenes in before it so this would have turned out to be twice the size of a regular chapter. I have this thing where I can't stand it if my chapters aren't in the same number range. And besides, this chapter _was_ fairly longer than the last. Be happy with what you get. '–'; 

Before you have a go at me about Izumi, like some of my other online friends have, I'll tell you now that he was _not_ born from some sort of obsession with anime and/or manga. I myself am half-Japanese, so I do know full well what kind of life he would live. Furthermore, I grew tired of the whole 'otaku' scene ages ago, and his heritage _is_ of import to the plot. Just much, much later. Like, post-tournament later. --; It just really is a shame that some Americans let the stereotype of anime block their appreciation of Japanese culture.

Roch, by the way, is a European Hawk Owl. Very pretty birds.

And from the reviews, I perceived that some of you are worried that I'm not going to deviate from GoF. Well, I _did_ mention specifically before, in the **first** chapter, that the tasks were going to be different.

Finally, I love irony, don't you? Put several pieces of it in this chapter… The snake thing, obviously, but there's also a bit concerning Jean's name… Should be easy to spot. : )

**Next Chapter**: Lily and Snape have a conversation, the appearance of Jean's family, the First Task (I swear!), and perhaps more.


	6. Prospects

**We, In Faith**

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter Six**: Prospects

* * *

Lily stepped nervously into the doorway and watched the scene inside with trepidation. Wisps of acrid scent floated within a multicolored haze, the smog heavy and pungent. All of this surrounded and filled the potions classroom as Severus and a ministry official hurried about and attended to several cauldrons brimming with simmering liquids. Or rather, Severus attended to the potions while barking at the official who quailed under his gaze, trying to keep out of his way but still be close enough to watch the potions master. Unfortunately, there was no distance far enough for the Ministry toady to be that would ever satisfy Severus Snape. 

Clearing her throat pointedly, Lily ventured cautiously further within the cold, damp dungeon room. Severus ignored her, bent over a cauldron, yet the nervous little official looked up at her with evident relief.

"Um, Severus?"

He sighed heavily in exasperation and straightened up to glare at her. "_What_ do you want, Potter?"

"I was wondering if I could have a quick word?" she asked with an uncertain smile.

Severus turned back to the potions, his back to her once more. "Make it fast."

"In _private_, please, Severus…"

"Good lord, Potter," he practically growled, "I get wrangled into brewing these blasted things for that cursed tournament, and now you're interrupting me? God dammit, you ministry people are insatiable." He glowered at the official who seemed to shrink inside himself and tittered something about 'just his job'.

Lily winced and started to say something before a particularly strong whiff of smoke and potion smells entered her nostrils, making her head whirl and the room spin. The next thing she knew, she was being forced down into one of the student stools by a firm hand at her elbow. Her vision cleared and Severus's scowling features solidified before her.

"If you are ill, then you ought to be reporting to Poppy, not getting in _my_ way," he informed her sharply.

Lily smiled amusedly. "Thanks so much for your concern."

"I'm trying to get you out of my hair," he sneered.

"Still, you _will_ at least let me have a few minutes of your precious time?" Lily asked.

"Will you leave if I do?" demanded Severus in return.

"Of course," she said, "I wouldn't _dream_ of staying."

He glared at her but turned to the ministry official and snapped at him to leave.

"B- but I am supposed to supervise the concoctions…"

"I will not bother them in your absence, I assure you," Severus whispered dangerously.

"Um, ah… well, if you say…" he squeaked before edging quickly out the door.

The potions master turned to her again, his look as sour as ever. "Now, what in the world could you possibly want from me, Potter?"

"Well, I was wondering," Lily began, her eyes earnest, "if you'd be willing to brew a potion for me…" – she hesitated – "and James…"

"No." He promptly walked away, inspecting the bubbling cauldrons as he moved throughout them.

Lily got up herself, though it made her feel slightly dizzy, and followed him. "But you didn't even hear which one!"

"Potter, I _know_ which one you want and I will not become the bearer of bad news for that boy," snapped Severus. "_If_ it turned positive, of course."

She stared at him, flabbergasted. "How did you know?"

Lip curled, he glanced back at her. "It doesn't take a genius to connect your little visit here and the ridiculous scene your husband made on Halloween; he really has no shame _or_ tact, you know."

"But what did you mean, '_bearer_ _of bad news_'?" she asked, frowning.

"Merlin, must I _really_ explain?" Severus replied as he rolled his eyes. "Suddenly finding yourself to be a _Potter_?"

"Severus, _really_!" Lily cried, annoyed. "Must you always be so… so _caustic_?"

"How I hold myself is really of no concern to you, Potter."

"Oh, but," she said, still following him as he made his rounds through the simmering liquids, "it's really just a simple hereditary potion, can't you – "

"No, I can't," he retorted. "A hereditary potion is not as simple as you seem to think it is. It requires a great amount of patience, of which I have none for this particular reason!"

"Please, we'll pay for the ingredients, for everything!"

"I said no. Or do you not understand that?"

"_Please, Severus_," Lily whispered, her tone and eyes desperate. "I lost my son once. Don't let me lose him again."

Looking at her, he sighed heavily again, as if greatly put upon. "What makes you so sure that it's him? And how do you explain away the fact that the vast majority of the wizarding world believes him to be dead?"

Lily paused, as her eyes grew distant and hesitant. "I just know it. I can feel it in my heart. When I look at him, I think 'My God, it's him. It's _my son_. And he is wonderful.' – I don't know how any of this happened, but I'm sure…"

Placing his hands on one of the tables, Severus gave her a severe, direct look. "Let me give you a piece of advice, Potter. The heart is a deceitful, illogical source of dubious information that one should not depend upon. It will oft tell you only what you want to believe in with no regard for facts or the truth. Considering this, do you still want to run that boy through trials he will not thank you for later, _when or if_ you find that he is of absolute no real relation to you?"

"I…" she trailed off doubtfully. "I know… I know that I, for one, trust in my heart, Severus. And I think it would grieve me more if I never took this chance rather than if I _did_ find that he wasn't my son."

His eyebrows lowered and his expression grew dark. At last, Severus said, "Fine. You will pay for all of the expenses. Including the Ministry permit."

"Oh, thank you, Severus!" Lily said gratefully. "You don't know how much this means to me – wait, what permit?"

Back to his old self, he sneered at her. "Don't tell me you came all this way to ask me to brew this potion for you and yet you did absolutely no research on it?"

"Well, I…"

"Potter, this potion is highly Ministry regulated. To even begin brewing it you must get a permit granted with the consent of all the parties that will be involved. That means, you will have to make sure this Pole agrees to it _and_ his guardian since the boy in not yet legally of age."

"Oh, I'm sure we could –" Lily said.

"You'll need to get approval from them both before I begin the potion so that you may obtain the permit," Severus interrupted.

"Ah, well, would signatures do?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered, "but you'll have to owl the Ministry for the consent forms. Now, _if_ you'll excuse me, I still have to finish off these" – he gestured to the seething cauldrons – "before tomorrow afternoon." He looked at her pointedly.

Lily smiled and headed again to the classroom door. Turning again in the doorway, she said, "Thanks again, Severus. Really."

Glancing up from one of the potions, he sneered again. "_Why_ are you still here? Furthermore, you look ill again. Get out before you start vomiting all over my cauldrons."

Lily couldn't help but laugh as she left, gesturing for the little Ministry official waiting outside the door to go back in. As she swept up through the dim hall, heading toward the cozier levels above, Lily failed to notice a shadow slipping cautiously around the corner, moving away from the potions classroom.

* * *

Biting her lip nervously, Lily followed James as he strode toward the door and held it open for her, smiling brightly to reassure her. 

"Don't worry so much, Lily-flower!" he said.

She managed a quick, forced smile before entering into the side chamber off of the Great Hall. It was a different one from the night of the announcement of the champions; more open and breezy with comfortable couches lined sporadically down its long walls and the windows showing a cheerful and soft snow outside. A few of those couches were already occupied.

Nearest to them were the ever prestigious and, in James's frank opinion, snooty Malfoys. Narcissa was settled down primly, her legs crossed and her eyes steely as she watched the Potters enter. Lucius was standing near his wife with a firm grip on his cane. He watched them with a rather cool gaze, as well.

"Malfoy," James nodded politely and grinned in a strained sort of way.

Lucius sniffed distastefully. "Potter."

The moved away quickly from their icy glares, taking up a sofa themselves. Lily supposed their stiffness was quite understandable; their son _was_, after all, had done the unthinkable in becoming a fourth Triwizard champion and jeopardized the position of the Malfoy heir. But again, the Malfoy family had always been rather unfriendly to them. It didn't help that James was absolutely positive that Lucius was still a devout Death Eater.

Shaking her head to rid it of these thoughts, Lily gazed down the long, rectangular room. A tall couple sat across from them, conversing lowly in an unfamiliar, guttural language. With the mother's pale hair and the father's powerful looks, Lily supposed that they were Kurkov's parents. They too were giving the Potters fairly cold glances.

She looked away and James squeezed her hand, staring at the last occupied couch. A young man that had to be in his mid-twenties and a girl were seated together and speaking in fluid, elegant French. The man was fair of hair and face, his smile soft and eyes gentle. The girl, though probably a bit younger than Ainsley, was already showing a shimmer of potential for a great beauty with her animated cornflower blue eyes and long, pretty lashes.

"That must be them…" Lily whispered softly.

"Yeah…" James trailed off uncertainly.

Her brow wrinkled in confusion. "But… it's strange."

"What is?" he asked, turning to her.

"He can't be more than a decade older than Jean," she replied quietly. "I don't see how a ten-year-old could have raised a baby…"

James frowned. "Maybe –"

Suddenly the door opened silently and the Triwizard champions entered, their strides dignified, with the exception of Ainsley who stumbled on his untied shoestrings and got his foot tangled up in his robes. Around him, the older contenders snickered and moved away with a last sneer at him. He flushed angrily and glared at them as he stooped down to properly tie his shoe.

"_JEAN!_" The abrupt shriek came from the petite little girl as she flew down the long room, her jet-black curls streaming. She flung herself at the Beauxbatons champion who staggered slightly from the impact but laughed and clasped his arms around her. He swung her about in a circle, her petticoats and legs flying and finally set her, giggling, back down on the ground. The girl began to gush quickly in rushed French, to which Jean replied with laughs and spoke to her soothingly.

" – don't see why you couldn't have just told me about the tasks, I mean, I betcha the other champions are cheating, too. I guarantee you that Malfoy the git-face already knows what's going; he's always going on and on about his stupid rich daddy," Ainsley was complaining to them. It seemed he had been ranting for quite a while.

"Don't be silly, Ainsley," Lily reprimanded distractedly. "Just because someone else is cheating doesn't mean you should sink to their level." The young man was now joining Jean and the girl.

"But – Dad!"

"Listen to your mother, Ainsley." Jean was chatting amiably with the man, smiling faintly.

Ainsley frowned up at them, looking back and forth through their gazes. "Hey!" He waved his hands in front of their noses; Lily and James blinked down at him.

"How come," he began, still frowning, "you two are always acting weirdly around Pole?"

"Er…" Lily swallowed convulsively and looked up at James. He stared back at her, apprehensive. Through all their hurry and excitement over finding what they believed to be their son again, neither Lily nor James had thought about how exactly to tell Ainsley.

"It's nothing, Ainsley," James finally said firmly. Lily met his eyes in a silent agreement – they would wait until they could be certain about anything.

However, looking at Jean now with his family now, Lily wasn't sure anymore that they had any right to suggest what they wanted to. Of course she had known that he had led a completely different life, with completely different people, but she hadn't really comprehended as fully as she did now, seeing the boy smiling and speaking far more openly with those people than anyone else she had seen.

"Uh-huh." Ainsley did not look at all satisfied with the answer.

Before he could press them any further, however, McGonagall came in and they all quieted to watch her expectantly.

"I would like to ask the tournament champions to now come with me," she announced. "The first task is about to begin."

The champions quickly approached her, giving a quick farewell to their families. Lily watched after her son worriedly as they left through the door entering into the Great Hall with McGonagall waiting by the door. Ainsley tripped on his laces once again.

"Lily, James," the Deputy Headmistress said, "if you would please bring the families behind us in a moment."

They nodded and she followed after the champions.

Gathering himself up, James moved toward the door to get their attention with Lily quickly proceeding him. "Excuse me," he called, "if you'll all follow me, we'll get right down there soon."

"Where, exactly, is _there_, Potter?" Lucius Malfoy asked disdainfully.

"The dungeons," Lily answered.

* * *

"Well, in you go," McGonagall stated, gesturing at the door they were now facing. "Mister Bagman will be here soon to tell you – to tell you the procedure…" She trailed off, looking a bit green. 

They entered and she quietly shut the door behind them. It was a cramped, cold stone room with a few stools set about and several candles floating in the air provided the only lighting. Jean suppressed a sigh of annoyance at being provided such shabby accommodations while they waited for the task to begin. He lowered himself onto one of the uncomfortable stools and felt the first rises of apprehension in his stomach. He quickly stifled it, however, and turned his mind elsewhere.

Kurkov was pacing across the flagstones across from him and Malfoy had decided to lean casually against the wall beside Jean's stool. Potter was standing by the door, bouncing on the balls of his feet and chewing his lip nervously.

Just then, the door creaked open reluctantly and Bagman bounded in, all smiles.

"Hello, hello!" he exclaimed happily. "I hope you all have made yourselves comfortable."

"In zis sort of place?" Jean asked incredulously.

"Yes, certainly you could have found _somewhere _better to place us," Malfoy added scornfully.

"Well, it's not a five star hotel," Bagman chuckled good-humoredly, "but it'll do for now!" He looked like some sort of ridiculous clown in his bright yellow quidditch robes.

"Well, we're all here and accounted for – time to fill you in!" continued Bagman brightly. "When the audience has assembled –"

"Assembled _vhere_?" demanded Kurkov in exasperation.

He looked back at her in surprise. "Didn't you see the stadium?"

"Obviously not, or she wouldn't have asked," Malfoy snorted.

"Well, that won't do!" He jumped up, grinning once more. "Come on, everyone follow me now!"

He led them out the door and down the wide, chilly corridor. Bagman gestured at a great opening at the end of the hall where two large doors would normally have been.

"Take a look, then!"

Inside where normally there would only been a room with a dungeon-like atmosphere, there was in its place a huge, circular cavern with smoothed over walls covered in row upon row of stadium seating. On the north wall, a section was cut out of the bleachers and a brightly-colored judges' box was in its place. Jean noticed that their families were already seated around it. In the open space in the middle of the gigantic room was a long iron table, its metal claws gripping the stone floor. Above their heads, the ceiling had been enchanted with something similar to the one in the Hogwarts's Great Hall – it was an imitation of a bright summer sky, the sun hanging directly over them even though it was well past noon. The light from the fake sun filled the stadium and infused it with the feeling that one was truly outside.

"I've never seen this room before," Malfoy announced, frowning. "And I've been here for seven years."

"Well, you wouldn't would you?" Bagman answered cheerfully. "It's only been here for a few days. We had to charm it larger and then place everything inside – a great accomplish, don't you think?"

"Sure," Kurkov said, unimpressed.

"Well, enough dilly-dallying! Let's go back to the other room, shall we?" Bagman ushered back to the dingy little chamber.

The returned to where they had been sitting or standing as Bagman rubbed his hands together in excitement.

"Now, where was I? Ah, yes! When the audience has assembled, I'm going to be offering each of you this bag" – he held up a small sack of black silk and rolled it over his hand gently – "from which you will each select a small sample of what you are about to face! There are different – er – varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something else too… ah, yes… you have only an hour to complete your task! Go over the limit, and three points are automatically penalized from each judge for every fifteen minutes over the set hour."

"What?" Potter asked, confused.

Jean rolled his eyes. "It means zat you will forfeit three points from each judge for every fifteen minutes after your hour – zey would 'ave to decide your scoring from seven downwards if you 'ad a time of an hour and ten minutes, for example."

The younger boy turned an odd puce color. "Oh." _Clever_.

Kurkov scowled at them and began to pace again, her manner agitated and surly. Inspecting his already immaculate manicure, Malfoy seemed unruffled except for an unconscious, impatient foot tapping. Potter swayed on the balls of his feet again, practically tearing his lips to shreds and looking quite sick. Jean simply leaned back in his stool and tried to calm his breathing by remembering the visit that they had had earlier from their families.

It had been good to see Lawrence and Cordelia again. Cordelia, though extremely happy to see him again, had almost started crying while proclaiming that Beauxbatons had been unbearably lonely without Jean. He often worried about when he graduated and she would be left to fend for herself for four more years until she herself could leave. He _was_ exaggerating, of course; Cordelia had plenty of friends there. Still, he couldn't help but worry…

Soon, hundreds upon hundreds of pairs of feet could be heard passing the small chamber, their owners talking excitedly, laughing, and joking. The noise could be heard bouncing off the underground walls, and the sound grew irritatingly loud. But it suddenly died down to the chatter of a few stragglers. Then, Bagman opened the neck of the black silk sack.

"Ladies first," he said, offering it to a scowling Monika Kurkov.

She put a steady hand inside the bag and drew out a small glass vial filled with a dark purple liquid. Tied around its neck was a small circle of parchment marked with the number three. Stifling her surprise, she gazed down at it with determined resignation.

Malfoy moved forward and pulled out a bright scarlet fluid with the number two around its neck. He looked at coolly, indifferently almost.

Puzzled, Potter spoke out. "I don't –"

"Be quiet!" Jean snapped at him, standing up to take his own turn. The Gryffindor boy glared at him, his face tinged with green.

Ignoring the brat, Jean placed his hand inside the bag and removed a vial full of a vivid emerald concoction that swirled about thinly. Under the stopper was tied the number one. He fingered it and felt his stomach flutter once again.

Potter stepped forth to take the last glass tube. His hand emerged from the black silk with a sickly yellow-green colored liquid marked with the number four.

"Well, there you are!" said Bagman. "You have each pulled out the potion that you'll be told to drink. You must then brew the correct antidote within the set time or else suffer the penalties. As you have been informed before, you will be provided with the necessary materials – ingredients, cauldron, etc – but you may use your wand, if you so desire –"

"I'm not," pronounced Malfoy abruptly. He took out his wand and placed it casually on an unused stool.

Kurkov's eyes narrowed. "Then I von't, either." She put her wand beside his.

"Neizzair shall I." Jean's wand joined theirs.

They all looked at Potter challengingly. He gulped tensely and stared at them. Finally, he broke their gazes, stuffing his hands inside his pockets and flushing hotly. The other champions snickered quietly.

"Now, now," Bagman intervened, smile flickering. "No shame in being cautious, is there? Where was I again? Oh, right – the numbers around the necks of the vials refer to the order in which you are to take on your particular potion, do you see? Now, I am going to leave you in a moment, because I'm commenting. Mister Pole, you're first, just go out into the stadium when you hear a whistle, all right? Now… Ainsley… could I have a quick word? In the hall?"

"Er… yeah…" Potter muttered weakly. He allowed himself to be steered out of the room, Bagman's hand on his shoulder.

"How unprofessional," remarked Kurkov, still staring at her potion.

"Terribly…" murmured Jean.

Knowing he didn't have as much time as the other three, Jean gently shook his vial, watching the thin, almost oily liquid slide over the glass. Rote memorized potions ran through his mind, all that would have a similar color and consistency to the one in his hands. Carefully pulling out the stopper, Jean took small whiffs of its scent. Glancing up, he saw Kurkov taking large inhales from her vial.

"Smallair sniffs," he automatically said. "You get more scent if you use smallair sniffs…"

She looked up at him, her face starting to match her wan hair. Kurkov said nothing but followed his advice.

Turning back to his own vial, he again let possible matches for the potion run through his mind. Tenderly sticking a finger inside, he checked to make sure it wouldn't burn like an acid. Jean could suddenly feel beads of perspiration dotting his brow. He impatiently wiped them away and put a thumb over the mouth of the vial, letting a few drops fall to the floor. As soon as it hit the cold stone, the liquid turned transparent, clear. Swallowing nervously, he again placed his index finger inside the tiny container. Before he could think twice about it, Jean dotted his tongue with the fluid.

Instantly, he spat it out, turning his head to the side to cough. Wiping his mouth, Jean glared at Kurkov and Malfoy who were looking at him with amusement despite their nerves.

"Charming, Pole," commented Malfoy.

He glowered at the blonde. "Shut up."

The Hogwarts champion would have replied, but a whistle blew shrilly from somewhere.

Jean stood up quickly, his stomach tightening unpleasantly. He knew now what he would have to take, but it was no comfort to have such knowledge.

Leaving the cramped room, he saw Potter approaching him from down the hall, Bagman nowhere in sight. The boy looked irritated and rather ill. Jean gave him a quick, almost forced, smirk before heading to the large entryway opening into the huge underground stadium.

Instantly, the waves upon waves of students roared, the Beauxbatons section loudest. He strode past the stands, forcing himself to keep a calm face and assured steps. He could suddenly see Meri jumping up and down excitedly, waving madly to catch his attention. Beside her, Izumi ducked to avoid a misplaced fist and stared at her nervously. Jean wanted to smile and wave back, but found his face somewhat frozen in its overtly composed mien.

And then he found himself at the long iron table, every inch neatly covered in various beakers and glass containers of potion ingredients. It all surrounded a fairly medium-sized cauldron that was already half full of boiling water, the small fire underneath it crackling merrily.

"Here is our first champion of the afternoon to face the first task, Mister Jean Pole from Beauxbatons!" Bagman was announcing, his voice amplified. The man in the yellow quidditch robes was standing up on a clearly visible platform near the judges' box. Inside the box, four of the judges were seated in a row, peering down at him. Headmistress gave him an encouraging nod.

Jean swallowed and looked back down at the table strewn with the tools that would be his only protection against his imminent poisoning.

"Now, as soon as the whistle sounds again, Mister Pole is to swallow every last drop of the bright green liquid in front of him" – Jean placed an oddly steady hand around the small, transparent tumbler filled with the emerald potion – "and brew the antidote to it with the supplies provided. He will be given one hour and will be penalized for every fifteen minutes used after said hour. Now, Mister Pole, are you ready?"

Jean felt himself nod in confirmation.

"Then" – Bagman called, a high-pitched whistle ricocheted off the walls – "_begin_!"

Automatically, Jean brought the potion to his lips and swallowed it whole. The slippery, thin liquid slithered down his throat unpleasantly, the oiliness leaving a lingering, acrid taste on his tongue. His ears suddenly seemed deaf to the cheering of the crowd and everything else around him started to disappear. Jean felt strangely calm.

He reached forward and skillfully began measuring out the beginning ingredients to the antidote. His mind ran once more over the properties of the poison now coursing through his veins. It was one that his potions professor at Beauxbatons had made a point of going over thoroughly before the twelve candidates had left for Hogwarts. It was bright green when brewed properly and was difficult to recognize; it turned clear the moment it touched another substance. Thus making it perfect for slipping into someone's drink or food. The only symptom of consuming the potion was easily identified – a build-up over time of excruciating pain.

And even now, Jean could feel a dull aching beginning in his chest and spreading out over his entire body. He quickly dumped his measured out ingredients into the boiling water and turned up the heat under the cauldron. Grabbing a root from nearby, he began to chop it deftly into paper-thin slices. The dull ache turned into a rhythmic throbbing.

The minutes wore on, and Jean forced himself to ignore the growing agony by repeating the antidote steps over and over in his mind. _Asphodel root… newt eyes…_ A bead of sweat trickled across his temple, causing his head to pound. _Newt… newt eyes… unicorn bile… less heat…_ His stomach suddenly spasmed painfully. By reflex, Jean jerked away from the simmering cauldron, making sure that he wouldn't ruin the potion by retching all over it.

The noise again seemed to turn itself back on, the crowd gasping and Bagman calling out his commentary.

"Oh! It almost looked like he was going to be sick, poor fellow!" he cried gleefully. "Now he's going back to the cauldron, adding more things in… it's been exactly fifteen minutes since the whistle! Forty-five more minutes until the penalties are added on! Forty-five minutes!"

Jean tried to shut the noise out, focusing on the task at hand. Time began to pass sluggishly, the pain throughout his body continued to grow making his hands shake slightly so that he had to concentrate just to spill the contents of a beaker into the cauldron, trying not to miss. He suddenly had to force the breaths in and out of his lungs, each contraction of the soft tissues like being stabbed with millions of tiny daggers within his organs.

"Twenty-eight minutes! Twenty-eight minutes until the end of Mister Pole's set hour!"

Bagman's magnified comments did nothing to help. Each time the irritating man called out the time left, Jean felt his instincts, rankled as they were with the pain in his body, screaming at his consciousness to panic. But then, of course, he overcome his impulse and simply went on to the next step, focusing as much as he could.

Nearing the end of his steps in brewing, Jean was literally shaking from the stabbing ache. He stared down at the cauldron, a distant and unrecognizable voice drifting in his ears. _Let set… for… for… until… milky green…_ Abruptly, an unbearable, piercing pain ripped from his chest and swamped his body. Jerking convulsively, Jean again stepped automatically away from his antidote and bit his tongue to keep from crying out.

"Merlin! That looked _painful_!" Bagman's horridly cheerful voice echoed within Jean's mind, clinging like some unpleasant residue.

Through his haze of agony, Jean vaguely observed that the liquid within his cauldron was finally a milky, pale green. His hands quivering, he doled out the antidote into an empty tumbler. He wondered unsteadily if he had managed to complete each step correctly; Jean decided he really didn't care. He quickly downed the contents of the tumbler in one gulp.

Instantly, another shrill whistle resonated and the crowd roared to its feet.

Weak-kneed, Jean grasped onto the table for support, wiping his brow shakily. He gazed out at the cheering students as if through a smog and watched as the two aurors hurried toward him. Struggling upright, Jean stepped forward to meet them halfway across the open space in the stadium.

"Great job!" James called.

Lily reached out a hand to his elbow and gave him a rather forced smile. "Yes, really wonderful! You should go see Madam Pomfrey before the judges give out your score… Over there, in the side room…"

Jean nodded at them gratefully but denied their offer to assist him. He walked stiffly toward the door off on the side and opened it jerkily. As soon as he entered, the noise stifled behind the shut portal to a haven of silence, Jean slid against the rough wood of the door, and his body shuddered with gasping breaths. He began coughing brutally, blood splattering onto his held up hand.

A cool, firm grip wrapped itself around Jean's shoulder and pulled him down onto a padded seat, still gagging on his own blood. The metallic taste of it pervaded his mouth and filled his nostrils. Yes, he _had_ gotten the antidote right, but that only stopped the pain from growing – it didn't terminate the pain itself.

An icy liquid was poured into his mouth by gentle hands and Jean had no choice but to swallow it. The potion flowed down his throat, easing his agony instantly. He leaned back into the chair and tried to get his breath back, still panting but not so harshly. Wiping away a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, he inspected the witch in front of him. She had her lips puckered in dissatisfaction and her eyes were worried. Jean assumed she was a nurse from the way she was sorting through several bottles of various medicines on a metal tray nearby.

"Poisons!" she said, in a disgusted tone, handing Jean another glass full of a milky green liquid. "Drink that again, dear. I know you've already made one, but there's no reason not to be cautious." He obediently drank it. The nurse began inspecting him, peering into his eyes and holding her palm against his forehead, talking furiously all the while. "_Deliberately_ poisoning students, what were they thinking! The dangers of it… what if there were a mistake! I don't see how you didn't collapse right there in the middle of the room… Choking on blood…"

Jean said nothing and allowed himself to be administered to. He didn't think he would really have the strength to speak even if he wanted to – certainly not in English.

Straightening up, the witch bustled away and said, "Now just sit quietly for a moment. That restorative I gave you isn't enough to get you back to normal – you'll need a proper rest for that – but it'll be sufficient for now."

Suddenly the door creaked open and two people strode in – Lawrence with Cordelia clinging to his hand. Seeing Jean, she dashed forward and threw her arms around his neck in a tight squeeze.

"Ooh, Jean! I was _so_ frightened for you!" Cordelia cried, the French slipping from her tongue hastily.

Under her mass of dark curls, Jean couldn't help but wince from her desperate grip, thankful that they couldn't see. He moved her away slightly, holding her shoulders gently. She was beginning to sniff loudly and her eyes were starting to fill up with tears.

"Why are you crying?" Jean asked softly, wiping her eyes with a finger. "Look, I'm fine!"

"Truly?" she snuffled.

"Truly." He smiled and smoothed down the mussed locks of her hair.

"Ah, Cordelia," Lawrence said, placing a hand on her shoulder, "I think they're about to announce Jean's scores. Why don't you go check for us?"

"All right," she answered brightly. She slipped out the door, skirt whipping around the corner.

Lawrence took a nearby seat next to Jean and looked at him worriedly. "Are you really fine, Jean?"

"Yes, I am," he replied.

"You know you have a tendency to try and burden things on your own," Lawrence said, still concerned.

"I am _fine_," Jean said firmly. "I wouldn't have been chosen as the champion if I couldn't handle the tasks."

"Okay," he sighed, "I'll take your word for it. But please let us know when you really do need us."

"I will," promised Jean, running a hand through his hair. Truthfully, he wasn't entirely positive he would be following through with the promise. Most things just really weren't worth bothering Lawrence with, despite what the older man thought. He really had enough things to deal with as it was.

"Have you heard anything else about this whole custody problem?" Jean asked.

Lawrence frowned and shook his head. "Not really. Almost nothing's changed since I last owled you. I've been trying to get Madame to speak to me about it, but she's refusing for some reason."

"Do you think she might be planning something?" Jean was well aware of Madame Pole's sly and conniving schemes.

"I don't know. Really, I don't," sighed Lawrence. "You never know with her; one minute she's meddling enough in your life to drive you insane and the next she's cursing you to Hades and back. But try not to mention any of that to Cordelia – she came here to see you, not to remember all of that mess."

"_Forty-five_!" Cordelia cried happily, darting back in. "You got a forty-five, Jean!"

"Splendid!" Lawrence smiled, getting up. "You deserve every point, too!"

Jean stood up as well, though slightly slower than he normally would have. "Did you notice what the judges gave individually?"

"Ah, I'm sorry!" she answered worriedly. "I don't know who's who… but Headmistress gave you a ten!"

"That's all right; I can find out the rest later," Jean chuckled and pulled her into a one-armed hug as he walked toward the door.

"And _where_ do you think you're going?" the nurse exclaimed, looking up from her work in the corner when there had been a pause in the steady French conversation. She hustled near, her look severe.

"Ah, I was just –" responded Jean in apprehensive English.

"You are in no condition to be going anywhere!" she declared.

"But, really, I feel much better –"

"No means no!"

"Please, Madame," Lawrence intervened, smile appeasing. "'E truly is fine now; and we 'aven't seen 'im for so long…"

"Well," the nurse said, mollified, "as long you get a good night's rest as soon as possible…"

"I will, I promise!" Jean answered hastily and flitted out the door quickly before she could change her mind.

In the stadium, the table that Jean had used for his task was being cleared and the glass beakers replaced with new, fresh ingredients. The cauldron was also being hauled away – all done by Ministry officials who had their wands before them, guiding the various instruments through the air.

Jean decided to find his classmates and left Lawrence and Cordelia to go back to their seats near the judges' box. Climbing up the steps in the stands, he felt his chest tightening and he couldn't help but gasp softly every now and then. As intent as he was to just be able to clamber upwards, Jean did not notice the looks the Hogwarts students were giving him. So it was with great relief that he finally reached the grinning faces of the Beauxbatons students.

"Great job, Jean!"

"We're going to win for sure with you!"

He smiled thankfully and edged down the bleacher until he approached Meri.

"Jean!" Meri hugged him. "You were incredible! I really don't think I could have ever gone through that!"

"I'm just glad it's over," he replied, thumping down into the seat next to her.

Jean sighed and rubbed his temple, leaning back against his seat. Izumi nodded to him from across Meri.

"Congratulations," he said, smiling.

"Thanks," Jean replied tiredly.

Izumi looked at him sympathetically. "It looked painful; you're alright now?"

He grimaced but said, "Yes, I'm fine –"

Once more, the shrill whistle blew and the next champion entered the stadium.

Below, Malfoy almost looked like his face was starting to match his platinum blonde hair. But then again it might only have been the height from their seats. Like Jean, he approached the long iron table with self-confident strides and looked up at Bagman with expectant eyes.

The whistle wailed again. The Hogwarts champion placed his tumbler against his lips and the scarlet liquid flowed down into his throat. Instantly, he set to work, taking a pinch of a powder and sprinkling it into the boiling water inside his cauldron. Malfoy's hands moved about expertly, almost mechanically, and his face had a look of intense concentration. As the minutes wore on, he began moving slower, blinking his eyes unsteadily and furiously rubbing them.

"A blinding potion…" Jean murmured.

"What?" asked Meri.

"They gave him a potion that will cause a steady disintegration of eyesight…" he replied softly. "I, at least, could tell what I was doing."

"He'll be fine," Meri said frostily. She still had not forgotten the insult Malfoy had given her a few weeks ago.

The Slytherin stopped bothering to knead at his eyes, and instead moved as quickly as he could, trying to get as much as possible done before he completely lost his vision. Still, the hands clutching the paring and chopping knives flashed about deftly – experience from years of managing and brewing potions was finally paying off. Eventually, Malfoy could no longer simply squint down at the ingredients and was forced to identify by scent and, occasionally, by taste.

"Oooh, might I recommend a good dentist after the task, Mister Malfoy?" Bagman cried delightedly. The crowd groaned.

And then – the high pitched cry of the whistle pierced through the stadium once again.

"And Mister Malfoy completes his task with twenty-two minutes to spare!"

Lily and James Potter rushed forward to lead him toward the side room where the mediwitch waited, but he simply waved them away, walking through the door himself. It seemed that his vision was, indeed, restored.

"How much time did I have left?" Jean asked.

"Twenty-three minutes," Izumi replied. "But I think the judges knocked off points for the times you had to step away from the cauldron. Still, you both made pretty impressive times…"

"But _Jean_ had the better time!" Meri asserted.

"And we have our scores!" Bagman's voice echoed in the cavern-like chamber.

Headmistress raised her wand in the air and a long silver ribbon shot out of it, twisting into a large number nine. Next, both Mr. Crouch and Professor Dumbledore formed nines in the air, as well. Ludo Bagman gave a ten while Professor Karkaroff – an eight.

Bagman stood back up, shouting over the applause coming from the Hogwarts students. "And there you have it – Mister Malfoy has earned a total of forty-five points, putting him in a tie with Mister Pole."

"A tie!" Meri fumed.

Jean laughed. "It's only the first task, Mariette! There's still plenty of time to get ahead."

"Still…" she trailed off indignantly.

White-robed Ministry officials converged on the iron table, refreshing its supplies as they had before. And then the whistle sounded, Kurkov entered the underground stadium with steady, unwavering steps. As soon as the shrill scream of the whistle echoed once more, she went at the task with much zeal. Her poison disappeared the second it hit her mouth, the dark purple fluid staining her hands.

Though she was fervent in her preparation of the antidote, her work was rather sloppy in Jean's opinion. The sliced roots were a tad too thick, a teaspoon less of that powder would have been more advantageous, etc. It did not seem that potion making was particular strength of Kurkov's. It certainly didn't help when ten minutes into the task the Durmstrang champion began yawning widely, blinking her sharp eyes owlishly.

"What did they give her, Jean?" Meri asked.

He pressed his lips together, watching as Kurkov stumbled sluggishly against the table. "I think it's a slow-acting sleep draught." The champion below began to sway a bit.

"She looks drunk." The wry comment came from behind them, in English.

Jean looked up. "So, are you going to take up Bagman on 'is offair to recommend you a good dentist?"

Malfoy scowled down at him. "Of course not. But I don't see how you put up with that blasted vision of yours. Thank Merlin I have twenty-twenty."

Glaring over his glasses, Jean retorted, "Try coming back when you don't 'ave newt breath, Malfoy."

Meri giggled. The blonde rolled his eyes derisively and looked back down at Kurkov.

"Seems she's having a rough time," he commented.

It was true. The Durmstrang champion seemed to be hard put to even keep her eyes open, let alone brew a complicated antidote. But somehow she still managed to finish, scooping out a cupful of the contents of her cauldron and gulping it down slowly.

The whistle shrilled and Bagman called out, "With only thirteen minutes left in her set hour, Miss Kurkov completes her task!"

The judges granted their points, the silvery ribbons gleaming in the false summer sunlight falling from the enchanted ceiling. Kurkov gained thirty-eight points, leaving Jean and Malfoy tied for first place.

Popping his knuckles, Malfoy leaned back in his seat casually. "Well, Pole, seems like you and I are deadlocked. No need to worry over Potter, after all."

The students in hearing range laughed and relaxed as well; they were all a mixture of Beauxbatons and Slytherin teens. Chatting amiably, they began to lounge about, joking comfortably. As a result, they failed to notice that the other Hogwarts champion's turn had begun until the second whistle sounded.

" – and Mister Potter is now holding up his wand," Bagman was saying, "He's performing a spell… I think… yes, it's a Summoning Charm… Good Merlin!"

From the command of Potter's charm, a small stone was flying into the stadium, entering the same way the champions had. The now clearly red rock dropped to the ground at Potter's feet, rattling against his grubby sneakers.

"It's a bezoar¹!" practically screamed Bagman gleefully. "Ladies and gentlemen our youngest champion has, if I might say so, has showed the most ingenious –"

But Jean didn't hear anymore of what the ridiculous man said; the roar of the crowd was too much. Potter swallowed his potion whole, holding on tightly to the bezoar.

"_That little **ass**_!" Malfoy hissed furiously.

The other Hogwarts champion was completely unaffected by the poison, and that infuriating whistle screeched for the last time.

The Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts students supporting Malfoy were stunned. Around them, the Gryffindors and younger students screamed and stomped while the rest could do nothing but stare down at Ainsley Potter with livid silence.

The judges were discussing among themselves animatedly, their expression excited and agitated. Finally they held up their wands and shot their scores into the air. All gave tens – except Karkaroff who shot an eight upwards.

"And Ainsley Potter takes the lead with a grand total of forty-eight points!"

Potter's supporters roared with delight.

"I do hope," Malfoy whispered malevolently near Jean's ear, his expression pale and enraged, "that you realize our dear Mister Potter is overstepping every logical law in sensible society? _We should put him_ _in his place_."

Gazing down at the younger boy, who was grinning wildly and resisting his parent's efforts to pull him to the nurse, Jean curled a lip in distaste, eyes narrowed.

"I could not agree more, Mister Malfoy."

**

* * *

**

¹ - If you've forgotten about this already from SS/PS (for shame!), it's a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and will save you from _most_ poisons. Ainsley got lucky.

* * *

**A/N**: Omgzerzz. ; - ; This chapter was _so_ long. (In reality, it's only, maybe, five hundred words longer than normal, but whatever. WORK WITH ME.) 

Argh, I can't believe no one saw the thing with Jean's name! You make me cry. ; P

Eh. Haven't much to say. Hope the first task met people's expectations. And stuff. O – O

**Next Chapter**: Aftermath of the first task, announcement of the Yule Ball, and worries.


	7. Variation

**We, In Faith**

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**: Variation

* * *

The house was deathly quiet; it had been so for over fifty years now. Spiders dangled from their spindly little legs off of the eaves and dust settled over every visible surface, muffling the building into an oppressive silence. So when the small creak of an unoiled door shot through the house, it reverberated like a gunshot. 

The room was gloomy, lit only by the wan fire in the grate. The only piece of furniture showing any sort of use was a tall, winged-back chair facing the weak warmth of the flames. Beside the chair stood a young man – pale, straw-haired, and dusted lightly with freckles. He looked up at the door.

"Bartemius, is that the Führer?" The seemingly disembodied voice was high-pitched and icy.

Swallowing, the young man said, "Yes, lord."

In the doorway a shadow lingered, silent. Approaching the chair, it knelt, its figure small and thin while enlarged only by the thick shrouds ofdark robes.

"I've returned, my lord." The voice was whisper-like, muffled under a black mask.

"I can see _that_. Just give me your damned report."

"The first task went as planned; the Potter boy is in the lead."

"And the other?"

"He – " A small pause. "He is tied for second with the Malfoy heir."

"Hmm… Perhaps I need to have a discussion with Lucius…"

The young blonde man spoke up. "Master, do you wish for me to…?"

"No, if I did decide that, the Führer will go. My Death Eaters need to become… _accustomed_ to him… But in any case, I will wait."

"As you wish, my lord," murmured the one called Führer.

"What else?"

"The Potters…" Again a hesitation. "They are becoming suspicious of that other matter…"

"Do not let them discover it," the shrill voice commanded. "Under no circumstances will you allow that to happen. Or else you shall pay dearly."

"Of course, my lord…"

"The spy is still compliant?"

"Very, lord."

"Good, now return."

"Yes, lord." The shadow straightened up, the layers of black cloth enshrouding him.

"Wait."

Pausing, the Führer turned the blank features of his mask toward the chair.

"Remember, boy. You were given to me as a weapon. That is your only purpose. I gave you a name. Do not dishonor it by becoming emotional over him. _He_ is the enemy."

The Führer hesitated, but then replied quietly, "I would not dream of betraying you, lord."

"Leave."

He bowed, and left silently, his steps inaudible.

Bartemius Crouch Jr. looked away from the doorway and faced his master.

"Lord, do you think it wise to trust someone so… inexperienced?"

"Are you questioning me?"

Crouch shivered, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

"No, lord, never! I am just concerned…"

"The Führer is young. But not inexperienced. There is a difference. He will suit my needs nicely."

"But…" He hesitated uneasily. "Since he _is _so young, won't it be likely that he would be easily swayed? What if he were to turn against you?"

The winged back chair's occupant laughed harshly, the sound awful and inhuman. Crouch nearly blanched, but restrained himself.

"Bartemius, that will not happen, I assure you. I have no doubt that the Führer hates Harry Potter even more than _I_ do."

* * *

Several hundred miles away, much indignation and clamor was being risen in a removed classroom placed deep within the darker corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

"It is ridiculous! Ze instructions stated clearly zat ze champions were to _brew_ zair antidote!"

"This… this _boy_ must not be allowed to cut corners simply because he was unable to complete his task properly!"

"It is an insult! Ve studied endlessly to gain the points and _he_ – _he_ is given the best time because he got lucky?"

"I am sure, Dumbledore, that the other school governors will be _absolutely delighted_ to hear about this entire rigmarole."

"What nonsense! Ainsley performed to his best and fully satisfied the conditions of the task!"

Ainsley shifted agitatedly by the door, chewing on his lip and looking about glumly. After the confusion that followed the first task, he had been tugged into the clutches of Madam Pomfrey and then whisked away to this room where there really wasn't much being done except loud cries of indignation and rising tempers.

Personally, he didn't see what the problem was. Just because he had decided to use his wand while the others didn't, _they_ were being sore losers. And he _had_ won his points fairly. Waiting nervously in that cramped little room, Ainsley had tried to remember every lesson he could from potions. As his mind had drifted he suddenly recalled a seventh year showing him a blood-red stone that they had gotten from some relation or other. They had promptly broken it accidentally the next day, but Ainsley could still remember the fact that it was often used as protection against poisons. The whistle had shrilled and he had had no choice but to try it out.

Behind him his parents fumed angrily, upset that his success was being questioned. Across them stood Professor Dumbledore, trying to calm everyone down, and Professor McGonagall who glared severely at the other three champions and the Malfoys. Barty Crouch was standing in an out of the way corner, watching the scene impassively while Ludo Bagman bounced about nervously, occasionally dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.

Suddenly the door creaked open and Severus Snape swooped in, looking particularly surly. Seeing Ainsley's father, he threw a thick, folded piece of parchment at him. James startled but instinctively caught it. The room quieted.

"What's this?" asked James in confusion as he unrolled the parchment.

"_That_, Potter, is a bill," Snape sneered. "I expect full payment for your son's escapades."

"What do you mean, 'payment'?" Lily demanded.

"Well, imagine my great indignation to find my supply closet, stocked with the finest potion ingredients, utterly _wrecked_ simply because your son wanted to Summon a single stone!" he growled, eyes flashing. "Where else did you think that the nearest bezoar would be located? Speaking of which, I will take it back now!"

Ainsley looked down at his hand, still clutching onto the red stone. Shrugging, he shuffled forward and dropped it into Snape's outstretched hand. The professor glared at him. Ainsley returned it with a glower of his own.

"_So_!" Draco Malfoy exclaimed furiously. "It wasn't even _his_ bezoar!"

"Surely that should disqualify him?" Kurkov scowled.

"On what grounds?" McGonagall cried angrily.

"Using stolen property!" stated Lucius Malfoy icily.

"Mister Crouch, Mister Bagman, _surely_ you will not allow this irregularity to continue?" Narcissa Malfoy demanded, turning to the Ministry representatives.

"Erm… well, that is…" Bagman tittered nervously.

Crouch stepped forward, frowning. "The rules stated only that the champion had only to survive the poisoning within the set time, which Mister Potter did. On the matter of the stolen property, I cannot be sure…"

"Then," Mr. Malfoy asserted abruptly, "perhaps we should find somebody who will be sure." He stepped up to the door, his wife and son following. "You can be sure, Dumbledore, that I will request an inquiry from the Ministry."

"Now, really, is that absolutely necessary, Lucius?" called Bagman, going after the Malfoys.

Sighing, Crouch made to leave as well. "I trust you'll be able to sort out this mess, Dumbledore?"

"Of, course, Barty," replied Dumbledore.

"Yes… well…" he trailed off and left.

Ainsley decided to take that moment to slip out the door unnoticeably. He eased the door shut, the adults within still caught up in a heated discussion. Turning, he found himself faced with a large pair of solemn black eyes.

"Ack!" he yelped, startling. "Oleander, don't _do_ that!"

The Ravenclaw girl moved back slightly, her stare now rather reproachful. "I would not need to if you were not so very late all the time."

"Did it ever occur to you that you might be a bit _early_?" Ainsley demanded.

"Oi!" exclaimed Stewert from his leaning position against the opposite wall. "Don't blame us for _your_ short-comings, Potter!"

"The only short one around here is you, Ackerly!" he retorted.

The other rolled his eyes. "We're the same size, idiot."

"Whatever."

Oleander glanced between them disinterestedly and began to casually stroll down the hall. "You two are very boring."

"Uh-huh…" Ainsley shrugged but followed after her as Stewert sighed.

"They have accused you of stealing," Oleander stated calmly.

"Er…" said Ainsley slowly. "Yeah… I guess…"

"Oh, joy!" Stewert exclaimed sarcastically. "Now you're an idiot _and _a common thief."

"Shut-up!" he snapped. "What else was I supposed to do? It's bad enough that I have to compete against a bunch of seventh years. If there's a way to cram three years of schooling into my brain I'd like to know about it."

"Well," sniffed Stewert disdainfully, "you might want to try asking for help every now and then."

"Don't be stupid!" said Ainsley, disgruntled. "I _never_ ask for help. You do things on your own or not at all. 'Sides, they said I couldn't ask for help from _anyone_. It's against the rules."

"Since when have _you_ ever cared about rules?" Stewert demanded.

"Never," he admitted, "but this is different!"

"I'm sure – "

"Hush," Oleander asserted suddenly. They instantly quit bickering. "They will form an inquiry against you, but nothing will come of it."

Ainsley blinked. "Uhm, are you sure?"

She gave him a look that said 'You doubt me? _Me_?'.

"Never mind then…" he muttered.

"They gave you the clue to the next task?" she asked calmly.

"Yeah…" Ainsley rummaged in his robe pockets and pulled out a small glass phial filled with a black syrup concoction. Each of the champions had been handed one from Bagman right after they had all completed their first task, before being dragged into that whole argument.

Oleander took the phial and inspected it. "What did they tell you about it?"

"Just that it was the clue to the next task."

"Are you sure you do not want help?"

"Positive," Ainsley said firmly, taking back the delicate container.

"Stewert and I will be in the library during the evenings," Oleander declared softly, as if she had not heard his reply.

"Okay…"

The two Ravenclaws left, leaving behind a rather consternated Gryffindor.

* * *

Lawrence sighed and fiddled with Cordelia's cloak, watching the little tableau of sibling affection she and Jean were making. He smiled softly as her eyes started to spill over with tears. She really did miss him so much. It was a shame that they had to leave after spending only a few hours with Jean, but Cordelia had school and Lawrence had work. 

Looking past the other champion parents, he wondered idly of they should take the train instead of the floo; all of that turning and tossing made him ill.

"Excuse me."

Lawrence looked up at the polite English inquiry and saw that the auror couple where smiling uncertainly at him.

"I don't think we were properly introduced," the man said brightly, holding out a hand. "I'm James Potter and this is my wife Lily."

_It would be **those** Potters, then._ Lawrence returned the smile and shook his hand. "I am Lawrence Pole."

"You're related to Jean, then?" Lily asked prudently.

"Yes," he replied slowly, "I am 'is uncle."

"The girl? She's terribly adorable, by the way," the woman added.

Lawrence smiled. "Thank you. Zat is Cordelia, Jean's cousin. Zough, in truth, zey are really more like brozzair and sistair."

"Yours…?" James asked, confused.

"Oh, no," said Lawrence quickly. "She is not my daughtair; a more distant relation's."

"Oh, I see…" Lily trailed off. "I don't suppose Jean has told you about us…?"

"A little," he said, glancing at the boy. "I understand your stance, but please don't ask too much of 'im. It would be good to know ze truth, but zair are certain complications…"

"Lawrence?"

Cordelia had dried her tears and was clutching the hand of Jean who looked between them quizzically, suspiciously almost.

"Jean, I was just speaking wiz ze Potters," Lawrence asserted quickly. "A vairy charming couple."

"Oh, thank you," Lily laughed, unsure. "I'm sorry, but, Jean, didn't you mention once that you had a father?"

A small, increasingly uncomfortable silence followed this. Lawrence gave Jean a concerned look and whispered quickly in French, "You did not tell them?"

"No," he snapped back, in French, as well. "Why would I?"

Lawrence shook his head and turned to the Potters again. "I'm sorry, but _I_ 'ave been 'is guardian for about four years now."

"Cordelia, get Lawrence's cloak, will you?" Jean suddenly said to the girl. "'E 'as gone and forgotten it again."

"All right…" she said timidly, looking up at them.

"You want me to take a 'ereditary test?" he asked directly after she had left. It seems that Jean was in no mood for subtle allusions and insinuations.

"Well, we were hoping – " James flushed.

"Do you 'ave ze forms yet?" Jean demanded.

"Well, no," admitted Lily, "I only owled the Ministry yesterday, but – "

He interrupted her. "When you do get zem, send zem on to Lawrence and me. Zat is if you agree?" He turned abruptly to him.

"I – " Lawrence paused. "Of course, if you want me to, Jean, but – "

"Zen it is settled," Jean asserted firmly and promptly walked away from them.

Lawrence sighed. "I'm sorry, but 'e is sometimes temperamental. Not often, but… You'll excuse me?"

"Of course." They nodded, looking concerned.

He walked quickly after Jean. It really was a shame that Jean couldn't learn to trust people more quickly; the Potters certainly did mean well enough.

* * *

The weak winter light flickered vaguely through the window behind Jean, barely settled across the parchment in front of him. Resisting a yawn, he glanced around at his classmates. They seemed displeased to be caught inside on a Friday afternoon, but dare not question the methods of Headmistress. They could only fidget helplessly, sneaking quick looks behind them out the windows lined against the wall. 

It was only four days after the first task, but already the novelty had worn off in the daily rituals of lessons and studying. The inquiry against the Potter boy had been petitioned and granted; the committee was still deliberating on the merits of his effort. Jean had the feeling that it would all come to nothing, but even so, there were still two other tasks to complete and the younger boy's luck would not last forever. It was simply inevitable that he fall behind in the points.

The permission forms for the hereditary test had come in and Jean had immediately signed his, sending the other on to Lawrence with Roch. It would be a few more days until the owl returned, but it was doubtful even then that Snape would begin brewing the potion. He simply refused to do so until completely reimbursed for his jars of ingredients that the Potter boy had broken _and_ said jars were all replaced. After he began it would still be another two months until they were ready to apply the samples received from Jean, Lily, and James. Nevertheless, it would be a great relief to just put all of this nonsense behind him already.

Beside Jean, Jacques grumbled irritably under his breath. He was most likely still upset on not being allowed to throw a party after the first task. The idiot had been caught trying to smuggle butterbeers, firewhiskey, and sweets into the boys' carriage. Headmistress had chewed his ear off and sent him straight to bed like a naughty child given a time-out without his supper.

"_Remember the Alamo!"_ _he cried, slumping off to his bedroom._

"_The Alamo lost, moron,"_ _Orlando muttered sourly._

"_Watergate, then!"_

"_They found that out; Nixon resigned," Jean commented._

"_The Edo Period?"_

"_Overthrown by the Meiji government," Izumi sighed._

"_Napoleon Bonaparte?"_

"_Banished to exile."_

"_Damn. Muggles suck."_

Jacques now seemed determined to get his fellow students drunk, no matter the cost.

Jean sighed and dipped his quill into his inkwell. He supposed every group needed its residential idiot.

"All right class," declared Headmistress suddenly, "if you'll kindly put away your materials for today, I have an announcement to make."

Soft sounds of books and parchment being quickly placed into bags drifted through the class. They looked up at Madame Maxime expectantly.

"The Yule Ball is approaching – a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and an opportunity for us to socialize with our foreign hosts and fellow guests. Now, the ball will be open to fourth years and above – although you may invite a younger student from Hogwarts _if_ you so desire." She did not sound as if she approved of anyone younger than that being invited by one of her star pupils.

The half a dozen girls tittered excitedly to themselves, giggling airily. Headmistress gave them a severe look and they quieted immediately.

"Dress robes will born," Madame Maxime continued, "and the ball will start at eight o'clock on Christmas Day, finishing at midnight in the Great Hall."

_Christmas Day?_ Jean sat up, frowning worriedly.

"Now, the Yule Ball is of course a chance for us all to relax and enjoy ourselves, but that does _not _mean that I will be relaxing the standards of behavior expected from my students. I will be most displeased if anyone embarrasses our school in any way."

She ran a critical eye over them as if presuming this last statement to be a given.

"You are dismissed."

The quiet scuffle as people slung bags over shoulders and left quickly, gossiping ecstatically with whomever was nearest.

"Jean – a word, if you please."

He proceeded to Headmistress's desk, letting the rest of the class leak out into the hallway.

"Jean, it is traditional that the champions and their partners open the ball," she said as soon as the last straggler left. "So make sure you _do_ get a partner."

"I can't, Headmistress," Jean stated.

She gave him a suspicious look. "Why ever not? I'm sure that there are plenty of suitable young ladies who would be more than willing – "

"That's not it, ma'am," he asserted. "I mean that I can't attend the ball."

"You want to go home for the holidays?"

He flushed. "Well, yes…"

Madame Maxime frowned. "Jean, you're far too old to be getting homesick."

"No, it – it's not my family…"

"Well, what is it?" she demanded.

"I…" he trailed off, shifting anxiously and looking away.

"Jean, look at me."

Reluctantly, he raised his eyes to meet hers. They were not unsympathetic.

"I don't want you to think I don't remember what that day is the anniversary of," she said kindly, "but it's time to move on. You will find a partner for the Yule Ball and, with her, open it." She finished off in a final sort of way.

Relaxing into unemotional features, Jean nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

"You take too long!" Meri announced, dragging him further into the boys' carriage. He followed her quietly. 

She bustled into the common room, snatching Jean's bag from him and dropping it unceremoniously onto a table covered in quills and bits of parchment. Seated at the table, Izumi gave her an annoyed look and shoved the bag off his book.

"You know, I think you spend more time in our carriage than you do in _yours_," he grumbled, flipping through the rumpled pages.

"Oh, shush!" she snapped. "Where I spend my time is no concern of yours."

"Whatever."

She ignored him, pulling Jean down onto a small sofa at the table. "I was just saying to Brie that I should definitely take this Yule Ball thing as a chance to ask Orlando out."

"Sure," Jean sighed, uninterested.

"Who will you ask?" Meri tittered on. "You know Carrie has been _dying_ to go out wi – Oh." She paused, as if realizing something. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, Jean. I wasn't thinking… You're not coming are you? I'm sorry, I should have – "

"No need to apologize," he interrupted. "Headmistress says that I _have_ to come."

"What!" she exclaimed. "Why?"

"Apparently it is _traditional_" – he spat out the word – "for the champions to open the ball with their partners."

"Oh, _Jean_," Meri sighed worriedly. "Can't they make an exception? Could you at least get away for a few hours?"

He didn't reply but fiddled idly with the tassels of pillow he was leaned against.

"I'm sure that if you explained…" Izumi trailed off, watching him anxiously.

"Except that I'm not going to _explain_," Jean muttered coldly. "Trust me, Headmistress made it clear that I was to go."

"But she doesn't really know the whole story, does she?"

"Enough!" he finally snapped. "I don't want to talk about it."

"We're only trying to help you, Jean," said Izumi sadly.

Jean felt the resentment built-up in his stomach fade away. He shook his head and sighed. "I know. Just forget about it. Is that Li girl still after you?"

The other blanched. "Whenever I see her, and that's every time I step out the door, she's all over me. It's so creepy. Only Europeans and Americans do that. No offense." He added.

"None taken," Meri quipped. "You don't think she'll force you to take her to the Yule Ball, do you?"

"Talking about _me_?"

Jacques leaned against the back of their sofa, grinning down at Meri. She scowled at him.

"Not in a million years, Lealan."

He laughed and flung himself into a nearby armchair. "You wound me, Clehedault! Hey," – he put on a mildly serious face, which looked extremely strange on him – "want to go to the ball with me?"

"No," she stated crisply. "I'll set my sights higher, thanks."

"Higher?" he asked incredulously. "What could be better than going out with _the_ Jacques Lealan, pretty boy extraordinaire?"

She rolled her eyes and chucked a pillow at him. "That's not even funny, Jacques."

He ducked the cushion and wailed, "_Me_? Unfunny? Now that's just plain cruel! I think I'll cry."

Jean forced himself to laugh along with the others, but he secretly couldn't help but marvel at how distant he felt from them. It was truly unfair, being trapped here in a foreign country when he needed to be home the most.

* * *

The next Monday, Jean was so distracted that he got up early, as usual, and hurried into Headmistress's carriage. He clambered up the steps and walked down the hall into the classroom, as usual. But to his surprise, the lights were turned off and every single seat was empty. He turned to find Madame Maxime glaring down at him. She promptly began to scold him for waking her up when they needn't be anywhere until eleven. 

He realized his mistake then; it was an inter-school class day.

Deciding he really didn't feel like going back to bed, Jean began to wander about the grounds. He let his feet take him where they pleased and suddenly found himself near the dark expanse of the lake. Sitting down carefully on a nearby log, he watched the glass-like surface ripple and toil as the enormous tentacles of a squid emerged and submerged lazily.

Abruptly Jean could hear two sets of approaching steps behind him. He did not turn around until Malfoy casually sat next to him and Kurkov moved forward purposefully into his line of vision.

"You're a hard man to find, Pole," commented Malfoy.

"Have you been looking?" he asked.

Of course they would not have found him. Over the weekend Jean had shut himself into his room, oversleeping and spending the whole day chewing anxiously onto the end of a quill while staring at a blank sheet of parchment. He had finally finished a letter that met to his satisfaction late Sunday afternoon, but had to borrow an owl from one of the girls. That particular idea turned out to be disastrous. The entire, however small, female student body of Beauxbatons was transformed into a mass of giggling idiots with no sense whatsoever to speak of. Really, it was only a ball.

"Of course," Kurkov said impatiently. "Ve haff a plan."

"Before we get to that," Malfoy asserted, "you should know that my father owled me; they let Potter off and declared that his actions were permissible."

"Mmm." Jean said nothing else.

They looked at him suspiciously. "You don't look surprised."

"It's to be expected," he answered. "Not everyone believed zat article Rita Skeeter published. And even if zey did, 'e is still a bit of a celebrity. A Potter."

"Still, that doesn't make it any less infuriating," Kurkov declared angrily.

"I suppose not," Jean said casually. "What is zis plan?"

"Well," began Malfoy, cracking his knuckles, "I did some digging and discovered that little Ainsley has a bit of a crush on, of all people, the Weasley girl."

He nodded. "I 'ave met 'er once."

"I'm sorry," said Malfoy.

"I said zat I met 'er."

"No, I heard you," the Slytherin said cheekily, "I'm just sorry."

"Idiot." Kurkov glared at him. "Get to the point."

"Well, we were thinking that the Potter brat might be so terribly enamoured with the girl that he'd take a dive in the next task," Malfoy stated, smirking. "That is, _if_ someone were to purposefully come between them."

"And this ball is the perfect chance to do it," added Kurkov.

"You want _me_ to ask Ginny Weasley to the Yule Ball?" Jean said, annoyed.

"Well, _I_ can't do it," replied Malfoy, looking repulsed at the very idea. "I mean, a Malfoy and a Weasley? Merlin knows what decent society would think!"

"Too butch for me," muttered Kurkov.

Malfoy whirled to stare at her. "Didn't know you swung that way, Kurkov."

"I don't. Tch. I'm just saying." She sniffed at them, disinterested.

"Anyway…" the blonde continued, turning back to Jean, "when are you going to have a go at it? Today? The sooner the better."

Jean gave them a bland look. "You seem to be vairy sure zat I would agree to such a thing."

"And vhy vouldn't you?" demanded Kurkov.

"Because zair are bettair ways to gain ze upper hand wizzout meddling in ze affairs of an uninvolved party," he stated calmly.

Malfoy stood up, his gaze icy now. "Pole, Weasley got involved the moment we discovered that Potter had a crush on her."

Jean stood, as well, meeting their eyes frankly. "I will not play wiz ze 'eart of an innocent bystandair. Find someone else to do ze job for you, if you are so anxious."

"It is because of idiotic idealizing, then?" Kurkov said coldly. "Vhat means more to you – your morals or your alliances?"

"My morals," he answered impassively.

She slinked near menacingly. Jean stared back, undaunted. "Be careful, Pole. You don't vant us as your enemies."

"Per'aps I do not want you as allies, eizzair," he murmured.

Kurkov gazed back at him for awhile, eyes narrowed. Abruptly, she leaned back and gave a loud, harsh laugh. Clapping a hand on his shoulder, she grinned. "I like you, Pole. You haff good character. Fine, do vhat you vant."

"Excuse me – " Malfoy said angrily.

"Oh, shut-up!" snapped Kurkov. "I haff someone else who can do it."

"Why didn't you say that before?" he scowled. "I wouldn't have bothered Pole in the first place if you had."

"Is zat so?" Jean asked dryly.

"Of course," said Malfoy. "I wouldn't wish such a fate on my worst enemy."

* * *

The rest of the day and those that followed became tedious to Jean and an utter irritation on his nerves. He supposed that he had become known for a bottomless well of composed patience, but there was really only so much one could take. 

The inter-school classes were as dysfunctional and chaotic as ever, with the addition of giggling, nonsensical girls who were previously perfectly logical students. However, this did not prevent the school rivalries from flaring up once more. From Meri's account, it seemed that Hermione Granger and Ernie Macmillan, pompous and self-righteous as they were, had decided that simply because they had been chosen as Head Boy and Head Girl they were entitled to snide remarks on the propriety of schools and persons they knew nothing about. Needless to say, Mariette gave as good as she got. Jean's own class fared no more peacefully, though it seemed that the elder Weasley was particularly miffed with him for some reason.

Jean had wondered idly if he had heard about the plans concerning his younger sister, but that would have been impossible. Kurkov and Malfoy would never let such a thing slip (he doubted that Malfoy would even be caught dead anywhere near Weasley), and Jean certainly had said nothing about it. He supposed it was simply one of those odd angers born from an irritatingly jealous nature such as his.

Hoping that the next few weeks afterward would not be so arduous, Jean was sadly disappointed. The Beauxbatons girls had enough experience of Jean to understand that he simply was not interested in any of them, and so did not bother on flouncing up and asking him to the Yule Ball. Unfortunately, the other two schools had no such experience. Girls he had never seen before were pouncing on every opportunity available to breathlessly beseech him to attend the dance with them – the Hogwarts girls were the most aggravating as they were usually younger and therefore more apt to tears upon refusal. Jean supposed that his status as a champion was what attracted them. Meri disagreed.

"It's the accent, Jean," she had said amusedly. "Foreigners love our accent; it gives a sense of mystique, of romance. You most definitely have that sort of air around you. And let's face it – you're just plain pretty. The champion thing is simply icing on the cake."

He had scowled and brushed her off, but the fact remained that he was practically bombarded with invitations every time he stepped out onto the grounds. Finally receiving the signed permission form from Lawrence had been one of the few highlights of that December, which was just plain sad when one thought on it too long. Jean had promptly hurried down to Severus Snape's office, moving quickly so as not to be caught by any girls waiting in the wings – it's harder to hit a moving target, after all. The potions professor reluctantly agreed to begin the hereditary test, to which Jean responded with mixed emotions.

He _did_ want to put all of this mess behind him already and get the Potters and their friends off his back, but if it turned positive… He felt queasy and apprehensive just thinking about it. That, combined with the fact he was constantly being reminded that he would be spending Christmas Day in England, made him bad-humored and snappish.

One day, tired of having to make polite excuses to beet-red females, Jean simply decided he had had enough. As he trekked up the slope toward Hogwarts castle, past the Durmstrang ship still planted firmly in the earth like some sort of queer plant, he quickly conjured up a bouquet of flowers. If there's a way to ward off women, it's to show that you already have a certain interest.

It was nearing the end of dinner, and trickles of little packs of students seeped out into the Entrance Hall, all giving him curious looks. The girls blushed and giggled, some lingering in the hopes the flowers were meant for them. Finally, three seventh year Ravenclaw girls emerged from the Great Hall, chatting animatedly.

"Miss Li," Jean said quickly, stepping up to them, "I was wondering if I could 'ave a private moment to speak wiz you?"

The girl gave him a surprised look, but her almond eyes turned sparkling in amusement at the sight of the flowers. She gestured for her tittering friends to go on, moving to a more secluded corner. The Chinese girl promptly plucked the bouquet from Jean's hands.

"A defense mechanism?"

Jean smiled wryly. "In a way."

"Let me guess," she murmured, watching him over an orange lily, "you're going to ask me to the Yule Ball?"

"Yes," he said smoothly, "if ze lady does not object, of course."

She laughed. "Oh, the lady does not mind at all."

"Splendid, but I 'ave conditions," Jean asserted.

"'Stop bothering my poor friend Izumi', correct?" Li asked candidly.

"You seem to be taking ze words right out of my mouth."

She grinned. "It's a gift. All right, Mister Jean Pole. I'll leave him alone if you'll take me to the ball. But, you know," – she gave him a sly look – "it's really nothing like what they're saying about you."

"And what are zey saying?" inquired Jean.

"Oh, that you're charming, chivalrous, honest to a fault, compassionate, and just plain perfect," she laughed. "But this – this is terribly superficial and insincere."

"Is insincerity such a terrible zzing? I zzink not. It is merely a mezzod by which we can multiply our personalities."¹

"Ooh, Oscar Wilde!" Li exclaimed. "His works are all so terribly ridiculous – I _adore _him."

"Ridiculous? Per'aps," Jean said in amusement.

"So, are you really asking me out only because of your friend?" Li asked curiously. "Or is it 'killing two birds with one stone'? All of those _fans_ of yours must be getting irritating."

He chuckled, "You see right through me."

"Of course!" she said. "I'd be a horrible date if I didn't. Well, I'm sure we'll look superb together, Jean! Toodles." The girl winked at him and sauntered away, bouquet slung over her shoulder.

Jean ignored the looks he was being given and contemplated taking a walk before heading back to the carriages for dinner. Beauxbatons always dined late, but he doubted whether he would still make it in time and incurring Madame Maxime's wrath was never a smart thing to do. He sighed and resigned himself to another stiff, ceremonial evening.

As he turned toward the great steps leading out onto the lawn, however, he crashed abruptly into a small figure. The girl tumbled to the floor with a loud 'oomph!'.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I really was not watching where I was going," Jean apologized quickly, holding out a hand to her.

Dazed, the girl brushed bright red locks out of her eyes and stared up at him, flushing.

Ginny Weasley took his hand and muttered, "I- it's all right. I, um, actually wanted to ask…"

* * *

¹ - From the book _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ by Oscar Wilde, highly recommendable.

* * *

I've wanted to use that first scene for a while now, but this was the only place it fit. I like this chapter – it has the first appearance of my favorite character, the Führer. He most definitely _is_ the one I like best out of all my OCs. Definitely. 

I'm sure that not everyone will be pleased with the fact that Jean asked Su Li to the ball, but I have my reasons. He's not looking for romance, and he has better things to worry about. And Li doesn't expect anything more than a good-looking escort. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.

And about Crouch Jr.-I said that he was never _taken_ out, not that he never _got_ out. xD

**Next Chapter**: Blushes, anger, muggle doctors, and **_maybe_** the actual Yule Ball.


	8. Weakness

**We, In Faith**

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**: Weakness

* * *

"W-Would you go to the Yule Ball w-with me?" 

Startled, Jean stared at Ginny Weasley's vivid red hair and matching face, the freckles prominently pronounced. She gulped nervously.

Was this some sort of ploy of Kurkov and Malfoy's? Had they gone against their word to leave him alone about coercing Potter into taking a fall during the tournament? Thinking back on Kurkov's fierce pride and Malfoy's obvious distaste for anything associated with the Weasleys, Jean thought it unlikely. No, the sixteen-year-old girl seemed too flustered for her own sake.

He sighed and put on an apologetic face. "I'm sorry, Mizz Weasley, but I'm afraid I already 'ave a date…"

Her expression turned rather crestfallen. "Oh. Oh, okay. Sorry to bother you…" And she promptly hurried away quickly, before he could reply.

Jean sighed again, turning towards the exit from the Hogwarts's castle. No doubt the other two champions would soon be badgering him with demands and annoyed complaints of letting such an opportunity through his fingers. He cursed the unfortunate timing. If Kurkov had already gotten her person to get to the Weasley girl first or if she had waited a little longer to ask Jean and heard about his asking Su Li (information that was probably already spilling into the Hogwarts student body), then she would not have had to suffer embarrassment and he would not have to listen to Kurkov's inevitable nagging.

All of the petty politics and intrigue surrounding this entire tournament and now the Yule Ball suddenly made Jean feel incredibly tired. Going back to school was usually a welcome break, but now it was like being back at the main Pole Estate again; the Madame meddling in everyone's lives. Admittedly, Jean was rarely at the manor, François and Lawrence had opted to live on their own, but each visit was a nightmare.

I really need some sleep, he thought to himself wearily.

-

_The home was in a state of disarray. It wasn't always so messy and flooded with discarded items; often one could find it neatly put together in a display of ardent domestic thoughtfulness. But of course, the supposed 'adult' within would wander about, as was his way, and casually pick up this book or that potted plant and shuffle to the next room, eyes foggy in thought, and place the captured article in some ridiculous place like the kitchen sink or the living room hearth. He never could curb this impulse and never knew until after the fact when he had done it; nonetheless, it irritated the more organized individual endlessly._

_François was unconsciously succumbing to this very habit when he suddenly jumped violently, for no apparent reason, and swiveled around, eyes scorching the cluttered room._

"_Harry?" he called into the afternoon silence. His still youngish face became vaguely worried._

"_Harry? Where are you?" Dazed, he went into the next room and licked his lips nervously. "Harry?" His voice steadily grew louder as he stumbled from one room to the next. "Ha – " He paused and studied the closed closet door before him. However faint, he could hear soft breathing. Tilting his head to the side, François opened it and entered, silently closing the door behind him. He squatted uncomfortably and examined the faint outline of a seven-year-old boy leaning against the opposite closet wall, hugging his knees to his chest._

"_It's a very dark place to be thinking, isn't it?" François commented._

"_I guess." Harry's reply sounded small and tight._

"_Just imagine if you had to live in a closet for all of your life," he continued, smiling vaguely in the darkness. "I bet you'd turn out all skinny arms and knobby knees – something like **you**." He reached out and poked the boy gently._

_Almost in spite of himself, Harry giggled softly._

"_But, personally, I think we could do with some light, don't you?"_

"_All…alright," said Harry tentatively._

_François reached up and pushed the door open halfway, letting speckled sunlight spill in. In the indistinct brightness, the man could make out faint streaks on Harry's cheeks, his eyes puffy and miserable, though the tears had long since dried. He said nothing, though, and wrapped his arms around his knees like the boy's and put on his vague smile again._

_Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek and eyed him, scuffing a small sneaker on the carpet. "I met a girl today."_

"_Did you?" François asked politely._

"_Yes… at the bakery," he answered slowly. Harry often went on errands on his own; he insisted that François would bungle it in some way or other (which was true) and the town they lived in was so small that any harm befalling the boy was inconceivable. "She was a pureblood."_

"_Hmm."_

"_She asked about my parents… and called me a…"_

"_And did you believe her?" François inquired calmly._

_Eerily greens eyes gazed up at him uncertainly. "No…"_

"_Then pay it no mind," he said firmly, taking Harry's small hands into his own. "Harry, are you angry at them?"_

"_At who?" asked the boy._

"_Your parents. For leaving you."_

_Harry's brows contracted in confusion and he looked away. "I… I don't know. I guess I'm half-angry. 'Cause I wouldn't have **you** now if they hadn't."_

_François smiled sadly. "I'd like you to make me a promise, Harry."_

"_What is it?"_

"_If you ever do meet your parents again, be kind to them."_

_Harry looked away. "I don't know if I could."_

"_Why not?"_

_He stood up and hugged François tightly. "'Cause you're the only dad I want."_

_For a moment, the man looked surprised, but he quickly encircled him in a hug of his own. He sighed._

"_You don't know how happy that makes me…" He held Harry before him and studied the boy, eyes unreadable. "I guess… I'm really not… a very good person, huh?" François's face seemed to crumple into a weary mask, wrinkled and ravaged by the pains of life._

_Harry's own smooth, innocent features grew alarmed at this statement. "Don't say stupid things like that! It's not true; you're the best person ever."_

"_I just feel so guilty sometimes… thinking about whoever your parents are out there…" the man mumbled softly. He watched as his son's expression became even more worried and suddenly burst out in laughter. "It's alright, Little Bird. I'm just getting old. Let's get out of here, okay?"_

_Harry relaxed and smiled back at him. "Okay."_

_It was six years later, three years after Harry had entered Beauxbatons, and for the first time in his life, the boy was truly, seriously, angry with his father, guardian, and friend. Harry stared moodily out into the snow-covered landscape, not noticing the forms and features. He shivered and bunkered down even more into his miserably hard seat on the damp wooden bench._

_It's not like François and Harry never fought; on the contrary, they did so often. But only over trivial things that produced little spats of irritability which could be quickly cleared up. However, this time, neither of them was willing to back down._

_If one were to meet François and asked to describe their first impression, one would immediately answer that he was 'kind'. But underneath that, there were layers upon layers of self-doubt and sorrow, confusion and self-loathing. Unwillingly, Harry had come to recognize this over the years in the ways that he would agonize over the smallest thing and the ways in which he had become far too harsh with himself._

_Some people would say it was leftover from the Dark Lord's war. François had been married to a girl that his mother had thoroughly disapproved of (all the better, in his opinion), and they had had a child – a girl. And then Death Eaters killed them. It had haunted the young François Pole into a deep pit of utter despair. It was doubtful he had ever left it._

_But then those who knew François better would say that his rather morbid mentality had existed long before he his wife and child had died. As he was the second oldest son of the head of the Pole family (the eldest had been diagnosed as clinically insane and was never spoken about), he had been constantly reprimanded and badgered on the importance of propriety and the nobility of the purebloods and all such things that came with an old family like the Poles. Needless to say, his childhood had done nothing to reinforce a sense of self-esteem._

_That summer Harry had grown frustrated with his adopted father's endless contrition and regrets that he had charged pell-mell into a heated argument. His demands for François to stop his dithering and get on with his life had fallen onto ears that did not want to hear such words. The man had instead grown incensed at what he believed to be a callous disregard for his worries and doubts, and therefore, his pain._

_The feud lasted up to the day that Harry had left for Beauxbatons again, and then, at winter holidays, they still had yet to reconcile. François had come to pick him up with his younger brother, Lawrence, but Harry had refused to leave unless he had apologized. Something, of course, François was unwilling to do, believing that he was the one that deserved the apology. So the boy had instead left with his uncle and now, Christmas Day, he was shivering uneasily on this cold wooden bench._

_Snow crunched and snapped as Lawrence walked up slowly and sat beside him. For a while, he said nothing and gazed with Harry out across the white expanse. A cold scent pervaded the air, stinging any unprotected skin._

"_No."_

_Lawrence turned to Harry with surprise. "No what?"_

"_You're going to tell me that I should go and say sorry to him," he muttered obstinately._

_The young man turned back in his seat and said quietly, "I won't do that, Harry."_

_Harry looked up suspiciously and demanded, "Why not?"_

"_Because I don't know whether you or François is right," Lawrence replied, blowing on his fingers for warmth. "Life, this world, everything – it's all very ugly, isn't it?"_

_The boy said nothing as he looked away._

"_And we're all suffering in some way or other," he continued, "so it's hard for people to see past their own pain to sympathize with someone else's. And even if you can, it's all the more difficult to **understand** their pain."_

_Wrapping his arms around himself, Harry watched as a couple walked past, the crackle of dead leaves underfoot ringing like a foghorn in his ears._

"_Still, although you can't very well understand, I believe it's best if you at least try to respect another's suffering," Lawrence said as he turned to his nephew again. "Don't you think that you owe at least that much to François?"_

"…_I guess," Harry mumbled._

_Lawrence chuckled softly. "Good. Because if you hadn't, I'd have to take you with me to those silly Christmas dinners Mother insists on having. I feel so jealous of François, getting to skip out."_

_Unsettled, the boy leapt to his feet and announced quickly, "I'll go and borrow the café's floo, see you later."_

_Lawrence laughed and called after Harry's retreating back, "I'll bring your things around later, before I leave for the manor."_

_A gloved hand waved in acknowledgment as he slipped quickly into a shop door._

_The intense green flames whipped around him as he plunged through the twists and turns and soot flurried thickly. Then suddenly it stopped and Harry was flung out into the living room of the spacious flat that François had rented out since they had left the cozy little cottage in the tiny town._

_Harry dusted himself off quickly and looked around, adjusting his glasses and calling out, "François! I'm home!" He moved forward to search the next room –_

"NO!"

Jean gasped in the shadows, slinging sheets and covers away from his body, his clothes already clinging to his cold sweat. He clutched to the nearest pillow with white knuckles and struggled to calm his uneven breathing. Trembling, he glared blindly down at the pillow. In a fit of rage, he hurled it across the room.

"_DAMN IT!_"he hissed angrily.

-

Lily gazed down at her knees sticking out neatly from her bleached cotton dress (one of the few muggle clothes she still owned) and let her lungs fill with the sterile, white smell that seemed to linger in every nook and cranny of the room. She fidgeted restlessly; it seemed like ages since the doctor had left, assuring her that the test would be completed with the greatest speed. If it had been a Healer, this would have been over in a matter of seconds, but Lily wanted discretion.

The door abruptly opened without a sound and a smiling, pretty woman in a long doctor's smock entered, a file grasped in her hand.

"Well, Mrs. Potter, I have some news for you," she said, sitting down at the low counter against the wall. Lily couldn't help but notice the omission of _good_ or _bad_ news.

"It seems that you are indeed pregnant."

"Oh," Lily said, taken aback. Of course, she had noticed her body's sudden changes and the differences in her actions, but had not really expected it to be true. She had almost been sure that this would all be a silly scare, an after effect of all the excitement and troubles she had been having lately. She didn't mention her suspicions to James; it would be terrible to raise false hopes only to have them crushed. And if it turned out that the boy from Beauxbatons was not… well, she wasn't sure if either of them could take any more stress as it was.

"Don't be so surprised; thirty-seven isn't _that_ old, after all," the doctor said cheerfully.

Smiling uncertainly, Lily answered, "Well, yes…"

The other woman seemed to misinterpret her expression once more. "Oh, I'm sorry, the father…"

"It's not that," Lily said quickly. "It's my husband, really, and there's just been a lot going on so I didn't want to…"

"I see," said the doctor, smiling her pretty-toothed smile again. "Well, it seems you're about a month or so along, so the due date would be around late July if I were to make a guess."

Lily broke out into a genuinely amused smile. "July? How ironic."

"Ironic?" she asked, confused.

"My first two children were both born on July thirty-first," answered Lily.

"What a coincidence," the doctor said. "I hope this one is, too. Putting that aside, do you have any questions?"

"No, thank you," said Lily, slipping down from the chilly metal examining table. "I pretty much know what happens by now."

Shaking hands with her, the doctor said warmly, "Then I wish you luck, Mrs. Potter."

-

Slow swells of clear, sharp resonance floated down the hallway, the notes rising and falling into perfection. Perfection marred only by tense voices caught up in a petty squabble.

"You're upset."

"I'm not upset."

Jean drifted toward the sounds, irate and bad-tempered after the dreams of that night. The tempo of the instrument began to pick up, the reverberations still lovely.

"_Yes_, you are."

"_No_, I'm not."

"_Yes, you are_. You always play that thing when you're upset."

Pausing before an open bedroom door, Jean peered in to find Meri perched haughtily on the end of a neatly made bed, gazing down with amusement at the musician.

"It's not a _thing_," Izumi snapped. "It's a –"

"– koto," Jean finished.

They started and looked up at him – Meri with a delighted smile and Izumi with an expression of annoyance that was quickly replaced with something like indifference.

"Well, look who finally decided to join the world of the living again," she said cheerfully, getting up. "Don't mind Mister Sourpuss there, instead, let's talk about a certain someone's escapades from last night."

'Mister Sourpuss' became a faint angry pink and turned back to the lengthy, stringed instrument before him. It was almost zither-like, yet as long as a man was tall. Several triangle-shaped stands were ranged variously across it and placed between the taut strings and the wooden belly of the instrument. Izumi was seated to one side; the three plucks tied to his fingers flew over the koto, releasing the innate melody.

"I'd rather not," Jean muttered, resisting Meri's tugging fingers on his arm. Had the news really traveled so fast?

The quick paced, exotic music seemed to stumble ever so slightly. "Why not, Jean?" asked Izumi stiffly. "Don't mind me; I'm just Mister Sourpuss, after all."

"You know, you're being a real ass," Meri said tartly. "And for no apparent reason, too."

He turned away once more, and began playing again, with a bit more of a bite to the notes.

"After all," she continued loftily, "Jean did you a favor, didn't he? You don't have to worry about that silly –"

"_I can take care of my own problems_!" interrupted Izumi angrily, his slipping fingers making a discomforting dissonance. He glared up at them.

"You know," Jean said coolly, "for someone who claimed not long ago that _I_ ought to let people help me, you are acting quite childishly."

Izumi looked startled for a moment, but then became rather sheepish and embarrassed. "Sorry, I really should follow my own advice, huh?"

"Probably," Meri snorted. She followed Jean as he leaned against the expansive four-poster.

"I just get really frustrated with my own weakness sometimes," Izumi murmured, fingering the thick koto strings.

Jean sighed and rubbed his temples as his dreams flashed across his mind. "I know what you mean."

Meri eyed them with displeasure. "Blah blah blah, you two are starting to sound like a couple of geezers."

"You know, you really do spend too much time in here," Izumi commented.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "This is the first time I've been in your room."

"I'm talking about always being in the boys' carriage," he replied thornily.

"Shut-up," Meri retorted, "I've every right to be here. Anyway, I thought you played that banjo-thing."

What does that have to do with Meri hanging around our carriage? Jean thought bemusedly.

"_Shamisen_. Not 'banjo-thing', _shamisen_," Izumi snapped, looking offended. "I prefer the koto. After all, you can't very well compare the three strings to the thirteen, can you?"¹

Meri gave him a look as if he had gone crazy. "What?"

"Meri, did you learn _anything_ from that summer last year?" Jean asked incredulously.

"I was sick most of the time," she replied sourly, "besides, you don't go on vacation to _learn_." She looked scandalized at the very thought. "The Ginza² was nice, though."

"And of course, you couldn't just use your own money, oh no, you had to use every single yen³ I had," Izumi muttered.

"Hey, I left you fare for the train back, didn't I?" retorted Meri.

The boy stared at her, speechless.

"There's no point in fighting against her, Izumi," Jean sighed. "It's enough to drive anyone up the wall."

"Too true," Meri said smugly. "But, to get back to the subject I started with, why that Su Li girl, Jean?"

"I didn't do it just for Izumi, if that's what you mean," he said wearily. "I've enough on my mind as it is without worrying about some hanger-on girl."

She pressed her lips into a thin line. "Jean, are you still sure about… about that heredity test?"

"It's not really like you," Izumi added. "I know you said you wanted to get it behind you, but would it really make that much difference in the end? You already have your own plans, after all."

"The Potters are good people," Jean said slowly.

"You mean Lily and James Potter are," Meri said sharply.

He ignored her. "But I don't really think that I'm their son; it's impossible, after all. However, I do know that I made a promise… a long time ago…"

"François, right?" Izumi smiled. "That sounds like him."

Jean said nothing, letting his eyes drop to the thickly woven carpet underfoot. A slim pair of arms reached into his vision line and clutched him into a gentle embrace.

"Why don't you let us help you with your plans, Jean?" Meri asked softly. "You know quite well that my mother and Izumi's father are both more than willing to give you the money –"

"No," Jean stated firmly. "No. Don't get me wrong, I really appreciate the offer. But this is just something I have to do on my own. I _will_ win this tournament."

Meri sighed. "Alright, but don't go and get caught up in that stupid habit you have of taking the entire world on your shoulders. We're all here for you. And whoever isn't, I'll kick their ass into next Tuesday."

Izumi laughed nervously. Meri wasn't one to not follow through with her threats.

-

Albus Dumbledore, though his usual benign and twinkly self outwardly, could not help but have mixed emotions about this splendid affair inwardly.

Of course, he was overjoyed at the sight of his and the foreign students enjoying each others company, but there was a nagging presentiment at the back of his mind. The Potters, poor Lily and James, and their world were obviously being shaken up over Madame Maxime's student, Jean Pole. As carefully as he could, Albus was trying to discretely keep his own tabs on their efforts to find out whether the boy was or was not the long lost child savior, Harry Potter.

If so, Albus felt sad that what the boy thought to be his destiny at the moment would be radically changed. He almost hoped it wasn't the Potters' son. It wasn't like Voldemort was pummeling the wizarding world with his past terrors; apparently the Dark Lord couldn't even establish a link with the physical world without the help of snakes or rats. And yet, if the day should come, Merlin forbid, that Tom would find his way up to a place of power once more it might be necessary to find Harry Potter again. That was, if he was still alive.

But then again, all of that can't completely overshadow the matters of heart; you had to consider the emotions of Lily and James. Finding Harry again would heal the gaps in their lives where he would have been. You can't blame them for hoping so much after so long. They had never had any real closure.

Well, the Great Hall looked magnificent in lush gold and purple. Albus thought the staff and the house elves had really outdone themselves for the occasion. And the students were happy, judging by the great noise they were making entering the Hall and finding seats at the little round tables replacing the House tables for the night.

As the three student bodies were just settling down, the four champions entered with their partners. Moderate applause and a few catcalls spilled from the fairy-lit tables. Albus smiled happily and clapped as they seated themselves around the larger table where the judges sat at the head of the hall.

Looking very fetching with his date Su Li, Jean sat beside Albus. He smiled as the boy nodded politely. Beside them were Draco Malfoy and a Beauxbatons girl Albus didn't recognize; he would have to say hello. Next was Monika Kurkov and another boy he didn't know (he really should make more of an effort to get to know the foreign students better). And last, but certainly not least, were Ainsley Potter and Natalie McDonald from the same house. Ainsley looked miserable. Must be about the lovely Weasley girl. Ah, the sweet agitation and moping of youth!

He turned to Madame Maxime to point out how to use the menus.

-

Jean fiddled with his food, not really listening to Li. He knew he was being surly, and he knew he was being a bit of an ass, but he really didn't care. Meri would probably be super ticked to hear of it (and she _would_) after bullying him into getting properly dressed. Frankly, Jean wouldn't have cared if he had run around in his underpants. Yet Li might have objected, and he had the feeling she shared a lot of personality traits with Meri.

"Jean. Jean!" Li was hissing at him and tugging his shoulder. "The _dance_."

He sighed. "Right." And let himself be led away rather quickly after the other champions.

The candles and lanterns went out as Dumbledore waved away the tables to line up against the wall. He conjured a platform with a queer-looking piano, drums, a guitar with three necks set at weird angles, and an even stranger bass arranged across it. The popular new band Sugar Bitters stepped up to wild cheers and screams. Annoyed, Jean strode to the center of the dance floor with Li, hoping the first song wouldn't last that long.

"You don't like Sugar Bitters?" Li asked as she took one of his hands and placed the other on her waist. Her smile was a little tight.

"They're alright." The steps to the slow tune came easily, while mechanically, to him. Li sighed.

"Hey. Pole." Malfoy and Brie Brigham sidled near. Jean wondered how in the world he could stand her insipid chatter. "I'm still annoyed with you for blowing that chance with the Weaslette. Look, she's practically drooling over there."

Jean doubted that – unless you could equate bursting into tears as drooling from your eyeballs. Ginny Weasley was seated with a few friends, who no doubt decided to go stag for her sake, looking depressed. Despite Kurkov's assertions of her friend's ability to win the girl over, she had refused his offer to go to the Yule Ball and apparently every other offer. Jean was irritated to find himself feeling responsible.

"Are you talking about Ginny Weasley?" Potter demanded nearby. He looked like he would start a brawl for no reason at all.

Jean snapped, "If you're so concerned, then go crawling and simpering to _her_!" Potter immediately turned bright red.

"Get away. All of you. Now." Li stared at Malfoy and Potter with slitted eyes and clenched teeth. They danced away quickly. She gave Jean an accusing look. "You know, I said I wanted to go to the ball with someone who would look good with me, but it'd be nice to actually have _fun_, too. I'm sure that's not entirely impossible for you, as well."

"I'm not really in a good mood."

"Obviously." Li pouted for a moment, then looked thoughtful. "I'm going to tell you something. So listen up. I'm adopted. My adopted parents are pretty much your nice, standard middle-class Britons. My biological parents, on the other hand, are filthy rich. My father's the CEO of some company in China. But when I was born, they immediately gave me away to adoption. Not because they couldn't afford to raise me, not because they couldn't provide me with a good future, and not because they were crack addicts or anything like that. But because they wanted a boy to be their firstborn. A _boy_."

Jean was surprised. "Oh. I'm sorry..."

She waved his words away. "Let me finish. The point is – we all have crap in our lives. But eventually we need to get over it and live in the present. So stop being a priss and enjoy yourself. You're being a real downer."

A little embarrassed, Jean laughed. "I don't understand women. It's like they can read your mind."

"Of course. We need to make up for the stupidity of men." She smiled smugly.

"You know, it pretty ironic you were chasing after Izumi," Jean said, sweeping her along to the music a bit more enthusiastically now.

"Why?"

"His mother wanted _him_ to be a girl."

She laughed.

-

Jean sat down tiredly, wiping a light film of perspiration off his forehead. Li joined him in a similar condition at the table with Meri and her date. After the slow, slightly angsty first song, the Sugar Bitters had blasted the hall with their signature heavy-pounder and screecher songs. And with Li's coercion, Jean had danced. He was _actually_ enjoying himself.

Meri grinned at him. "You look happy!"

"You sound surprised. I can't be happy?" Jean retorted playfully.

"_You_? Mister Boo-Hoo-I'm-Such-A-Miserable-And-Misunderstood-Soul?"

"Shhh!" Li leaned into Jean's arm and flapped at Meri. "Poor Jean, I can't believe you endure this every day."

He put on a long-suffering face. "She's horrid, you know. Actually, you two could be sisters."

They both groaned and punched at him half-heartedly.

Meri's date, the current captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, looked unsure whether he should laugh or not. Jean had the suspicion he wasn't exactly the sharpest tack in the box.

"Go get us something to drink," Meri abruptly ordered. "And be quick."

He obediently clambered to his feet and shuffled off. Jean gave her a look.

"What?" she asked innocently.

Li laughed. "Poor Palmer. You don't seem very concerned about him."

Meri rolled her eyes. "He doesn't exactly make for interesting conversation."

"You see, Mariette, that's why you should've gone with me." Jacques announced, suddenly draping his arms around her and Jean. He was juggling four drinks. "_I_ must be the most interesting person in the world!"

Meri edged away from him but accepted a tumbler. "Right. And of course that's the reason you couldn't find a date."

"I'll have you know," he scoffed, handing Jean and Li two drinks, "that I am making a statement."

"A statement that you're a complete looser?" jeered Meri

"Absolutely not. You see, as a man," Jacques puffed up his chest here, looking completely serious, "I'm obliged by society to worship the hand and foot of every woman I come by –"

"What're you –" Meri started incredulously.

"Men are downtrodden! We must rise up above the stereotype that our masculinity is dependent on our conquership of woman! You –"

Jean took a sip of punch and frowned. "Jacques –"

"You're so full of it –"

" – should have seen the girls line up! Miles and miles of them! Just to whimper pathetically, 'O, Great Jacques, please take me to the Yule Ball!' But I was steadfast! It was heroic really." He looked close to tears.

"Nobody wanted you, did they?" Li snickered.

"Nope," Jacques declared. He waved down Izumi and Pierce from across the room. "Me and those two went stag. Bit pathetic, really."

"Jacques –" Jean started again.

"I wouldn't say pathetic, _exactly_," Izumi protested, sitting down.

"It's a sad fact, my friend –"

"Jacques!"

"What?"

Jean shoved his tumbler in Jacques's face. "Did you spike the punch?"

Li took a drink from hers and giggled. "He did."

"And with something cheap," Meri grimaced at the electric blue liquid.

"What? I did no such thing –"

Izumi took a taste from Jean's. "Really, do we need to see a bunch of fourteen-year-olds falling down drunk?"

"False accusations!"

"You could have spent a galleon,_ at least_."

Jacques retorted angrily, "Look, it's not like I can puke money whenever I feel like it –"

"Obviously." Malfoy commented nearby. He shook his tumbler disgustedly at Jacques. "What is this pig swill?"

He threw his hands up in exasperation. "Look –" Jacques glanced surreptitiously at Madame Maxime attempting to dance with the comically short Hogwarts Charms professor. "If you bunch of hoighty-toighty sissies want to get your greedy little paws on some decent alcohol, then lets blow this popsicle joint and go down to the pub in Hogsmeade. I'm betting those two aurors are too busy rooting out all the snoggers in the bushes to notice us leaving."

"You _actually_ said 'blow this popsicle joint'?" Meri gave him a disgusted look.

"B-but Headmistress said –" Pierce spluttered at him in horror. "We'll get in trouble..."

Izumi shot a hand in the air. "I'm game. You need to have fun, Pierce."

"I'll get some of my friends," Li announced, already a little flushed from the punch. "The Hog's Head, right?"

"Hey Li, no Gryffindorks!" Malfoy told her sharply.

"Of course!" She giggled, meandering off into the crowd. Jean suddenly noticed a rather long line at the punch station and some very happy students tottering about. The laughter and talk was getting extremely loud and unruly.

"I'll be getting Kurkov and some people from my house, Pole." Malfoy smirked and slapped Jean's shoulder.

"Wait, how will we know how to get there?" Jean asked, resigned to the prospect of a hangover tomorrow morning.

Jacques grinned. "Oh, don't worry. I've got it staked out."

-

"May the best man win!" Their glasses tinked cheerfully.

"Excluding Potter, of course."

"Of course."

The Hog's Head was small and cramped, with shifty lighting consisting of squat little candles sprinkled about. The floor was beyond filthy, as were the glasses, but the beer was free flowing, even to obviously underage students. Said students, from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang and Hogwarts (mostly Slytherin with a handful of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs), were crammed into the one-room bar around battered wooden tables. Jean, Kurkov, Malfoy, Meri, Li and one of her very giggly friends, Jacques, Izumi, Pierce, and (to Jean's foreboding) Orlando had pushed together two tables around which they were toasting each other merrily.

"It's not like he stands a chance, anyway," Kurkov said as she took a swig. "He's all bark and no bite. The first task was just a fluke"

Malfoy cracked his knuckles. "If I could just get my hands on the little snot, I bet you he wouldn't be so cocky then."

"I wouldn't try it if I were you," Jean commented, determined to keep an eye on Orlando. "We'd be the first people they'd suspect."

"And anyways," asserted Meri, "_Jean_ doesn't need to cheat to win. Which he will."

"Cheat or win?" Malfoy snorted. She gave him a dirty look.

Li laughed loudly, infecting her friend with helpless giggles. "Don't – Don't take it too hard, Meri. He – He's just so, so, _so_," she snorted, "mad that he never wins! At anything! At Qui-Quidditch!" She put her forehead on the tabletop and slapped it in silent laughter.

Malfoy gave her an incensed look. "What are you talking about, Li? Slytherin hasn't lost a game for twenty years."

Jacques sniggered. "She really can't take her liquor." He attempted to put a casual arm around the other Ravenclaw girl, but was promptly smacked and laughed at noisily.

"You're friend certainly seems to, though," said Kurkov, watching interestedly as Orlando chugged an entire dusty glass of firewhiskey.

Orlando's eyes gleamed. "Bet I could beat any one of you spineless suckers in drinking." His entire air had changed from lethargic to irascible and chauvinistic.

Kurkov grinned fiendishly. "Is that a challenge?"

"Does a bear piss in a stream? Hell yes," he snapped. "Bartender!"

Jean's stomach sank as Orlando ordered a large number of firewhiskies. Kurkov and Orlando became louder and more obnoxious with every quickly passing mug. Izumi eagerly coaxed Pierce into drinking, while Jacques repeatedly hit on the Ravenclaw girl and was repeatedly spurned. Li and Meri were getting happily sloshed together. Li also seemed like she hadn't completely given up on Izumi.

"You don't think I'm preeetty?" she flirted tipsily. He flushed and looked away.

"Pfft," Meri snorted, "He's such a twitch. Y-you should see him around his sisters. He's like a trained monkey." Her laughter turned screechy.

"Excuse me –" Izumi began angrily.

"Like last summer, when we went to stay t-two weeks with him, he was always r-running around getting stuff for them – "

Li seem to think this hilarious.

"Actually, that trip kinda – kinda sucked," Meri frowned. "I was sick f-for most of the t-time. And I really wanted to go t-to that little p-party."

Jean choked. Izumi looked alarmed but tried to hide it by taking a swig of his beer.

"Come to think of it-it, you guys never t-told me what happened that night." Meri glanced inquisitively around at them.

Izumi gagged and spewed beer all over Pierce. Jean coughed self-consciously and muttered, "Nothing really. Just – you know – raw fish and sake."

Even with a buzz, Meri's intuition was hyped-up and locked-on. She stared at him suspiciously.

"You're keeping something from me."

"Honestly, Meri, I don't have to tell you every –"

"_What happened, Jean?_"

"Well, if you _must_ know," he replied sourly, Izumi staring at him in horror, "what happened was –"

"_Jean_," hissed Izumi frantically. Meri gave him a funny look.

" – we went to the teahouse and had a lot of sake. Then, – "

Izumi was mortified. "_Jean!_"

" – Izumi and I killed the president of the largest steel company in Japan," Jean finished casually.

Meri moaned. "I _hate_ it when you do that." But she seemed appeased for the moment. Izumi looked relieved. He helped a pathetically inebriated Pierce off his stool and out the door.

The night ended with Jean finally managing to drag Orlando away from the firewhiskey as the Hog's Head was beginning to spew out at random its underage clientele. But the climb back up to the Hogwarts grounds wasn't made easy by the fact that Orlando now wanted to ransack the little village. It took Jean and a very half-hearted Jacques half an hour to keep him from breaking into a shop window displaying a set of robes Meri fancied. Besides being much more 'energetic,' Orlando seemed more inclined to return Meri's affections. Getting them to bed was a much easier task than he thought it would be – Meri stumbling off with the other Beauxbatons girls and Orlando and Jacques collapsing in the middle of the boys' commons room.

Jean now sat outside on the carriage steps with Li, resting his head on his folded arms. The grass was already beginning to gather its morning dew, as noticed by a scrambling beetle. He glanced up at her. "Are you going to be alright? Want me to walk you to the castle?"

She smiled. "I'll be alright. But, there _is_ something you could do for me."

"What?"

"A good night kiss."

Jean pulled a wry face. "I don't think –"

"Oh come on, it's the Yule Ball night," she demurred with a slight pout. "I want a _kiss_ at the very least."

"I –"

She interrupted by suddenly swiveling toward him. Li touched her lips to his lightly. She leaned back and grinned. "Thank you very much, Monsieur."

"You're incorrigible." But he smiled, too.

"Again, thank you," she said. She studied his face for a moment. "You know, I never noticed it before, but..." With her finger she slid away a few locks of hair and traced a light scar down his forehead. It was in the shape of a lightning bolt; Jean had no idea how he had gotten it.

Li got up and swirled her weightless, silvery-white robes. "I like that. It's interesting." She began walking up toward the castle.

"Good night," Jean called after her.

"Night." She waved back. She was swerving a little.

-

¹ _thirteen vs. three_ – While Meri was right to say that a shamisen looks like a banjo (albeit with a longer, thinner neck), they sound completely different. A shamisen has three, thin silk strings while the much larger koto has thicker, thirteen strings. Understand that, generally, the koto is considered a more genteel instrument than a shamisen. (I also prefer the sound of a koto, but that's just me.)

² _the Ginza_ – a pricey shopping district in Tokyo.

³ _the yen_ – form of currency in Japan.

From this point onwards, I won't be using written accents.

-

**A/N:** Wow, it's been, what, a year since I updated? Something like that. I'm not going to make any excuse other than – I simply lost interest in this fic and fanfiction in general for a while. A very, very long while. But I've decided that from now on, I'll only be doing this if I enjoy it, so you might see a period where I'll stop writing again. I really just want a fun project to work on in my free time. However, you were rewarded for your 'patience' – I gave you a big chunk of Chapter Nine which will be titled "Clutter." (When I finish the rest of it I'll cut it out of Eight and add it to Nine.)

I'm hoping there's been a definite improvement in my writing; I shudder whenever I look at my past chapters. It might be very evident in this chapter since I started it a while ago, broke off at the beginning of the part where Dumbledore's thinking at the start of the Yule Ball, and then started it up again a good while later. I decided to leave out the accents from now on because I'm lazy _and_ I think they're rather stupid. I also realized now that when I started this fic, I left a lot of plot-holes. I'm going to try to fix them; either that, or you'll just have to ignore them. I also realized I've not been as creative about the Tasks as I thought I would be. Meh.

Please don't stone me (the hard, rocky kind, not the weed kind) about romance. The Jean+Li kiss was a semi-platonic sort of thing. And nothing dirty happened between him and Izumi. Honest. (But it is a funny story I might publish as a one-shot. It involves a lot of alcohol. Most of my stories seem to. Dx) Even though a lot of time has passed, I'm still not going to let romance dominate the story.


	9. Clutter

**We, In Faith**

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter Nine**: Clutter

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Jean stepped softly down the stairs and looked up at the great grandfather clock. It was four-thirty a.m. He had been tossing and turning for the better part of the night. Finally too smothered to stand his room any longer, he decided he would try his hand at the clue for the second task.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Papers, books, and various quills shuffled and clicked in the silence as he made space on a table in front of the empty fireplace. A passing temptation to light a fire was waved away just as was the clutter on the table. He sat in a large wingback chair and placed the small bottle in front of him.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

The liquid inside was black as guilt. If shaken, it would slide and sift thickly, like tree sap. Jean uncorked it. It had no smell and, to his surprise, resisted his touch if he tried to stick a finger down the bottleneck. On a whim, he tipped it over the tabletop and let the liquid spill out in thick ropes.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

It spread across the round table quickly, covering it in a heavy film of black. Jean blinked as white freckles of light bloomed on the liquid. A dim brightness spilled over his lap and into the surrounding chairs. He reached out a hand to touch it, but again it shrank from him. Even so, Jean could definitely feel a deep coldness seeping up from the darkness on the table.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Suddenly, Jean was struck with the liquid's resemblance, white lights against a black background, with the night sky. He rummaged around in the piles of papers he had shoved under the table and found someone's discarded astronomy charts. He studied the sliver of night. Jean frowned. True, he wasn't _the_ most knowledgeable person in the world when it came to the stars, but he had pretty decent grades in the class. He would have thought he would recognize most patterns, but this one seemed strange. He looked back down at the charts.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

None of them matched quite exactly. Several seemed to be close, but then there would always be something wrong. _Unless_... Jean looked around again and found the new Astro-Globe Jacques had bought in an attempt to dodge ever having to do any real work in his Astronomy classes. Of course he soon found that searching around the entire universe was much harder than simply sticking to the class appointed charts.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Jean sighed over the swirling cosmos in his hands. He had been right. Suddenly, the stars on the table shifted and began twirling around in a great circle, speeding toward the center like a great white, sparkling whirlpool. They soon appeared again, creating curly letters against the black. A message emerged.

"_The skies are deep and boundless,_

_Yet our regard for you quite careless,_

_Can you reach the bottled spot,_

_Before your treasure turns to rot?_

_An hour only! No less, no more,_

_Or your want shall turn quite sore."_

Jean snorted. Obviously these ministry people or whoever were no Yeats. But the idea was clear enough. Reach the 'bottled spot' in an hour to rescue something dear. They probably weren't going to allow Apparition, which would be a pain, but it wasn't unconquerable. Jean leaned back into the chair and sighed.

_Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong. Ding._

He started. It was already seven o'clock. The pit of his stomach lurched. The reason he hadn't slept much and the reason he had tried to distract himself with the clue to the second task was quickly approaching. It wasn't that he was _nervous_, exactly... It just seemed like he had a funny feeling about the day ahead. But he shouldn't. Severus Snape... Sure, the man was a little unpleasant, but he seemed to know what he was doing.

That letter he had sent Jean was somewhere. He searched through the carpet of parchment again. He would have to clean that up... He found it and flipped the letter open.

_Mr. Pole –_

_I thank you for getting yours and your guardian's permission forms to the Ministry in due time, at the very least. The potion will be ready for samples on January 18, 7:45 a.m. in my classroom in the dungeons. **Be prompt**. I don't take kindly to dawdlers. And if you have any misgivings do not bother alerting me after three weeks before above date. I'm not going to waste valuable time and ingredients on dithering._

_Severus Snape, Master of Potions_

Jean got up and stretched. He was already dressed, so he might as well start up to the castle and try to find the dungeons. He stared down at the liquid covering the table and wondered how he would bottle it up again. He took the little phial and placed it at the edge, thinking to try to sweep it in. But the piece of night rushed inside of its own accord. Amused, he corked it again and put it in his pocket.

He waded through the swamp of homework and books to the carriage door. For a moment he stood there, letting the young dawn light soak into the room beyond the open door. He leaned against the doorframe. For some reason, his mind turned to the night of the Yule Ball as he gazed up at the castle. He had fun that night. But now it bothered him. His insides twisted with something like guilt whenever he thought about it.

Jean mentally shook himself to get rid of his morbidity. Now wasn't the time. He climbed the stairs down the carriage one at a time. He was about to step out on to the dew-washed grass when suddenly he was grabbed from the side. Jean yelled but a damp cloth smothered his mouth and nose. A grip clamped vice-like over his hands. He struggled but something was making him dizzy. A heavy, fruity smell. The cloth!

_Chloroform_... was the last thought that entered his mind before the world faded to black.

-

Lily tried to hold onto James's hand as he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. The man was incredibly cheerful these days. He always got like this whenever they had a baby. To surprise him, Lily had decided not to tell James until Christmas night when they had finally returned from Hogwarts where they had spent most of the evening prying apart teens glued to each other's faces. Remus, Sirius, and some of their close friends had come to the house for a quiet holiday get together. However, after telling James about the new baby as her Christmas gift to him, he had immediately whooped and hollered like a schoolboy. The quiet Christmas party had turned into a loud celebration when James announced the news to everyone. But as quickly as the noise started, it ended when Lily's husband had insisted that everyone leave and she go to bed immediately. She had been treated like glass ever since. He had even tried to get her to stay home for the hereditary test. That's where she drew the line. She wanted to be here no matter the results.

James smiled and looked out over the great view of the grounds they had from the door of the entrance hall. "Oh, I think that's him."

Jean was nearing from the direction of the Beauxbatons carriages. Lily was still amazed every time she saw the young man how similar he was to her memories of James from their Hogwarts years. She was betting that under all that sleek back hair was an unruly mop just like her husband's. It was funny; poor Ainsley was always trying to get his straight-as-a-wand hair to look as windswept as his father's does.

But for some reason, she thought he looked... _different_. Like the same, but somehow something was off. It must be the light. Or the hormones.

"Good morning," Lily said and smiled encouragingly.

He looked up at them. "Good morning."

James, for once in his life, became serious. "Look, Jean. If you don't want to do this, don't feel pressured by us –"

"I'm not really doing this for you," Jean interrupted. "You have to know, I don't think I'm your son." Lily swallowed.

He entered the hall and they led the way into the castle.

She asked gently, "And what about the resemblance? You can't deny that..."

"There have been stranger coincidences in the world," Jean replied.

"Then why...?" she trailed off.

"Well, you're not assholes or anything," he started. James snorted. "And I've felt obliged to someone else for a long time over my biological parents."

Lily would like to have learned more, but she didn't press it. She saw the boy suddenly notice the slight round of her stomach. James did, too.

"We're going to have another baby," her husband declared proudly. "Best Christmas present _ever_."

"Congratulations." Jean smiled.

You'd think James would be a bit more solemn considering what they were about to discover, but he was hard to get down when something really excited him.

"It's going to be a hard wait; it always is," James continued. "But little James Jr. will be here around late July."

For a second, Lily was sure Jean's face had turned panicky, but it was quickly gone. She ignored it, sure she had misread. "_James Jr.?_ Since when did we decide that? And what if it's a girl?"

"James would be a good name for a girl." He sounded sulky. "Besides, you've only let me use James as a middle name so far."

"Was it Harry or Ainsley with James as their middle name?" Jean inquired.

Lily smiled, happy that at least he was open about the subject in general. "Harry does."

They came to a stone staircase leading down into the cool dungeons. James immediately began fussing over Lily. He insisted on practically carrying her down the steps. By the time they had reached Severus's classroom, she was thoroughly irritated with him.

"Snivellus," James announced, holding the door open for Lily, "your freezing, blasted room is going to damage and stress out my wife."

"_James!_" Lily said, horrified.

Admittedly, it was a little chilly in the completely stone room, furnished with long counters, stools, and cauldrons for each student. Several shelves of jars with strange mixtures within loomed down at them. Severus glanced up, disinterested. "Don't bother, Potter. I know your husband doesn't have –" He suddenly stopped. "_Mister Pole!_"

Jean stared at him from under the door arch, startled. "What?"

Severus straightened up and strode toward the boy. "You've some strange magical object on you. What is it?"

"I only have my wand and the clue to the second task with me." He pulled them from his pockets.

Severus inspected them and made a guttural, dismissive sound. "It was that clue potion. I've put a charm on my classroom and supply closet to keep out strange magics since one of my own bezoars destroyed all of my ingredients." He gave Lily and James a pointed look.

She blushed while her husband only looked annoyed.

"Let's get this over with already," Severus said abruptly, turning to a simmering cauldron on his desk. "And don't go blaming me, Mister Pole, if you find yourself the spawn of _these two_." He gestured at Lily and James.

Lily stamped on her husband's foot before he could make a move. Severus sneered.

"I'm not worried," Jean replied calmly.

Severus held up three cotton swabs. "I need a sample of each of your saliva. Swab the inside of your cheeks."

Lily accepted one, feeling her chest flutter. She wasn't sure if it was nervousness or her hormones. She wiped the inside of her mouth with the swab. James and Jean did the same. Severus gestured for them to drop the samples in the cauldron. It was three-fourths full with a milk-like substance, softly emitting heat. The cotton swabs were immediately swallowed.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, it began to bubble violently, still only slightly warm. As the liquid popped and burst loudly (James pushed her back), it turned a deep jet color. Suddenly, the potion seemed to collapse into itself. With James firmly anchored on her arm, she peered over the side of the cauldron and saw that it was perfectly dry with only the cotton swabs remaining.

She turned to Severus. "Well?"

He was frowning. He inspected his cauldron, tipping it to an angle by the copper brim. "The test turned negative."

"Oh." The fluttering feeling in her chest plummeted like a pebble in a steel well. James put a firm arm around her shoulder and she slid a hand across his waist. He looked disappointed, too. Jean seemed unsurprised, but gave them an apologetic look.

"This isn't right..." Severus muttered to himself, still scrutinizing his cauldron.

"What isn't?" James asked.

He looked almost as if he was going to sneer and say something sarcastic, but changed his mind. "I did this perfectly. I doubt there is anyone who could make potions better than I do, but this isn't right. The liquid, at the end of the pre-sample preparations, should be white and fairly thin, which you saw. After the samples are added, it should turn either black or blue. Black for negative and blue for positive. It turned black, but it's not supposed to froth and collapse like that."

Lily blinked. "What does that mean?"

"I believe," Severus stated, "something was wrong with the samples."

James's hand on her shoulder tightened. "Was it the baby? Could there be something wrong with our baby?"

"Did you go to a Healer for a pre-natal check-up?"

"Yes," Lily answered tightly. James had insisted on it when he heard that she had only gone to a muggle doctor.

Severus waved a hand dismissively. "Then they would have found anything unusual. And it isn't the fact that you _are_ pregnant, either. This potion is highly organic and mild in nature. Meaning, something inorganic or unnatural happened. That's the only reason I could see."

Lily bit her lip. Jean was being quiet and observant.

"Would that affect the result of the potion?" James asked.

"No." Severus glanced at him. "This boy isn't your son."

Lily smiled sadly at Jean. "I'm sorry. We've run you through the ringer for no reason at all."

"It's fine," he said. "I understand why you needed this."

James put on a smile similar to his wife's. "You're a good kid. Whoever your biological parents are, they don't know what they're missing."

Snape sighed loudly. "You three have already given me a major load; I'm expected to send the remnants of the potion to the Ministry. Those feeble-minded idiots will be harassing me for days about this. So. _Please_ take this wonderful little love-fest elsewhere." He looked pointedly at the door.

They took a hint and headed out, Lily thanking the sour Potions Master along the way. The three parted ways outside the entrance to the dungeons, saying brief good-byes.

James hugged her tight to his side. "You alright?"

"Yes. Are you?" Lily gazed up at him.

He smiled. "I'm fine. Let's look at it this way. You, me, and Ainsley have a new baby to look forward to. We love each other. We're healthy. We really have good lives."

She kissed him. "James Potter, I think you might be one of the sweetest men alive."

"Lily-Flower, I think you just might be on to something."

She tugged him off down the corridor. "C'mon. I want to visit Remus and Sirius and Dumbledore."

-

"So? What happened?" Meri demanded.

The girls' commons room was the same as the boys', only in different colors and just slightly less messy. Jean chose to forget the fact that it was messy because of him. He glanced at Meri from his plush green armchair.

"The potion turned negative." He leaned his head on his fist.

She blinked and looked uncertain. "So... that's good? Or is it bad?"

"It means I'm not their son."

"I know what 'negative' means," she snapped. "_I mean_, did you _want_ that?"

He sighed and rubbed his head. "I guess so. I don't want to be any 'Child Savior, Downfall of You-Know-Who' or something like that. I'm not even sure I ever want to see my biological parents at all."

Meri hesitated. "But, didn't you promise François you'd forgive them?"

"I said I'd be kind to them if I met them," he answered. "Not that I'd go searching every nook and cranny of the world to find them." His mouth was dry. "Is there anything to drink in here?"

Meri got up and grabbed a colored glass bottle from a tub of ice. She twisted off the top and studied him. He quickly gulped the cool spring water under her scrutiny.

"Are you alright, Jean? You look a little funny." She put a hand to his forehead and one to her own.

He swatted away her hand. "I'm fine. Let's talk about something else. I'm tired of over-thinking everything."

"Okay," Meri said, sitting down again. "You know the stupid Quidditch player I went to the Yule Ball with?"

"The one you ditched to go drinking?"

Annoyed, she retorted, "You went with me! Anyway, he's been sending me dozens of owls and always mooning around with a face like a stupid cow."

Jean nodded and fiddled with the tassels on a pillow.

"It's getting really irritating. He won't take a hint, either. I'm thinking about just going off on him in front of a lot of people. Maybe it'll get through his thick skull then –" She stopped and stared at him. He had a vacant look on his face. "Jean, you're not paying attention."

He looked up at her. "Of course I am."

"No, you're not." She glowered. "Look, why don't we go send an owl to Lawrence? I'm betting you want to tell him about the potion."

Jean got up and dusted off his robes. "Sure, why not? I need to go look around the Hogwarts library, anyway."

"Then why didn't you just do that while you were up there?" Meri asked, grabbing their coats, parchment, and a quill.

He frowned down at his hand on the doorknob. "I'm not... sure..."

Meri looked concerned. "Jean? Is all this stress getting to you?"

"I'm fine. _Really,_" he said firmly and smiled at her.

The Hogwarts library was pretty much the same as the one in Beauxbatons – tall shelves filled to the brim with books, the bookish smell, the cozy tables scattered about. The differences were that Hogwarts's was furnished completely in wood while Beauxbatons's was in marble and the librarian here was a pinched lady with disapproving eyes. The Beauxbatons librarian was a friendly, good-looking young man who had only just graduated himself and was a constant object of pining for girls.

"What are you looking for?" Meri asked. Apparently she had spoken too loud as the librarian gave her a look and made a 'Shhh' sound. Meri glared.

"I figured out the clue to the second task this morning," Jean whispered. "I need to find a spell."

"That librarian's a hag," Meri said a little loudly, in French. Said librarian merely shushed her again. "What kind of spell?"

"Hmm..." Jean picked out a few promising books. "These'll be fine for now. This place is stifling."

He placed his books on the counter under the librarian's dirty look.

Meri leaned next to him and said, again in French, "She looks like she's gone and sat on her knitting needles, point up."

"Meri, don't," Jean replied under his breath.

"Bet she eats garlic in _everything_," she continued. "She's got the breath to prove it."

"What's that girl saying?" the librarian asked sharply.

Jean laughed casually. "Oh, you know, stuff about clothes and celebrities and what not." He steered Meri out the door firmly.

She burst into laughter out in the hall. "That was priceless!"

Jean said amusedly, "One day I'm going to actually tell the truth when you pull that trick again."

"Oh no, Jean," Meri said, slinging an arm around his waist, "then your fun would be ruined, too."

-

Ginny sat in the Owlery window, holding her brother's tiny owl, Pig. She fluffed his chest feathers. He hooted happily and jumped about in her hands. She wished everyone were as easy to please. She held Pig to her chest and watched as a large beetle clambered into the room from outside and waddled up the wall.

"Some owl's gonna get you," Ginny muttered.

Voices and laughter floated up to her outside the door. She watched as it opened and Jean Pole entered, in the middle of a conversation with that girl he was always around with. Ginny felt her fingers and toes go numb to notice she was wound tightly around him. She was extremely pretty.

The other girl looked up at her and switched to English. "Oh, hello."

"Hi." Ginny looked back down at Pig.

Jean searched the rafters for a moment and whistled. A great hawk-like owl swooped down and settled on his arm. He let it nibble his fingers as his eyes settled on Ginny. She was infuriated with herself to find her cheeks flushing.

"Mmm... Minnie Weasley, right?" the girl continued on, her accent a little thick.

Annoyed, Ginny shook her head. "Ginny." She said it a little snappishly even though she couldn't remember the other girl's name, either.

The girl's brow arched and a derisive comment was practically budding on her oh-so-very full lips. Jean conveniently stepped between them as he tied a letter onto his owl's leg, approaching the window where Ginny sat. She got down quickly and watched as he smoothed its feathers.

"Say hello to them for me, Roch," he whispered to it. His accent made her want to melt. He put his arm out the window and the bird launched itself into the air with powerful thrusts from its legs and wings. Jean watched it fly off for a moment. To her intense embarrassment, Ginny could feel her face getting even redder as she stared at his jaw-line. He looked down at her.

"What's its name?"

"Huh?" She could just imagine the look on her face.

He pointed to the tiny owl cradled against her chest.

"Oh," she said rather stupidly. "That's Pig. He's my brother's." Pig hooted and fluttered happily.

"He's pretty cute." Jean smiled, then looked at her. "I saw you at the Yule Ball."

"Uhr..."

"You looked unhappy," he added, "and I felt sort of responsible."

"Oh, no." Ginny attempted a smile. "Really, I was fine – I'm mean, I _am_ fine." She laughed self-consciously.

His brow rose. "There's nothing I can do for you?"

Ginny looked down at Pig and practically threw him up in the rafters for something to do. "Nope. Not that I can think of." She refused to look at him as she quickly passed the other girl, now with something of an amused expression on her face. She reached for the door. "So, um, it was nice to see you." Ginny fled.

Great. Just great. Not only was she a tongue-tied idiot, but also a coward. She slowed down, determined to get her cool back. Still, her pace was less than leisurely as she headed towards the Gryffindor tower. The Fat Lady loomed over her and asked for the password.

"Potter for president."

The commons room was a little crowded; the January Sunday morning was too brisk for lazing about the lake. Students were scattered around the low-stoked fire, talking, playing games of Exploding Snap, or scribbling out scrolls of homework (mostly upperclassmen). Ginny spotted Hermione Granger sitting by herself in a corner, surrounded by piles of parchment and books. As usual, the Head Girl had probably bitten off more than she could chew by signing up for more classes than were necessary.

Most people didn't like her. She was bossy, uptight, and way too much like McGonagall for anyone's comfort. But Ginny had somehow found out that she could also be understanding and unjudgmental over a lot of things. She sat down and peered at her through the mountains of work.

"Go away," Hermione muttered, not looking up. "I haven't time to spare."

"Hermione," Ginny answered reprovingly.

She glanced up, looked back down, then looked up at her again. Hermione studied her. Sighing, she put down her quill and edged two pillars of books across the table to give Ginny her full attention.

"Who is it?"

Confused, Ginny asked, "Who's what?"

She received a funny look. "Who's the guy you've got a crush on?"

"H-how did you know?" spluttered Ginny.

Hermione smiled wryly. "I didn't until now."

"That's a dirty trick," she said, annoyed.

"Yeah, yeah," Hermione rolled her eyes. "Now. Who is it?"

Ginny glared down at her feet and muttered, "Jean Pole."

"Huh. I thought as much. I guess he _is_ pretty incredible."

She slumped back in her chair. "Yeah, but as far as he's concerned that stupid French tart and Su Li are the only girls in the world."

"You know, Ginny," Hermione said as she straightened up, "I've heard Li talking about Pole. I'm pretty sure he's just not interested in girls."

Ginny gawked. "You mean he's –"

"No," said the older girl quickly. "That's not it. What I mean is, I don't think he wants to be involved with anyone."

"Huh." Ginny was not consoled.

"Why don't you just tell him how you feel?"

Her cheeks flushed and she shook her head. "Uh-unh. I can't."

Hermione frowned. "Why not?"

"Because," Ginny took a deep breath. "Because I asked him to take me to the Yule Ball already and of course he said no, so... So."

"Oh, Ginny," sighed Hermione. "Even so, maybe you should talk to him anyway. To make things clear. I'm betting you just asked and then ran off."

Ginny felt annoyed she was so on the dot. For _both_ of the brief encounters she'd had with Jean. They continued to discuss her intensely embarrassing crush for a while. Ginny wished fervently that it would just disappear. This whole bother with the red cheeks, the fantasizing, the hearts and doodled words on spare bits of parchment – she was starting to irritate the hell out of herself.

"Hey," interrupted Liam Shea from a nearby table, "I think you should go after your brother, Weasley. He was sitting right here listening to you two. He looked pretty P'O'ed."

"And you didn't stop him?" Hermione demanded as she stood up, scattering papers to the floor.

Shea shrugged, flicking shaggy brown hair out of his eyes. "No offense, but it's not like he can actually put up a real fight."

Ginny sighed, "That's why I'm worried about _him_. That idiot."

-

"Oi, Pole! You over-rated, pompous-ass pansy!"

Meri bristled instantly and whirled to glare up the staircase at the gangly redhead. Jean put a hand around her wrist and pulled her firmly forward into the Hogwarts entrance hall.

"Ignore him," he murmured softly.

"Hey! Wheredya think you're going?" demanded the boy above them. He had a definite resemblance to that Ginny girl.

She smirked. It wasn't hard to connect the dots. She simply thought it rather tacky of the little girl to have her brother try to rough up Jean. Not that Meri would allow it. She tugged her hand out of Jean's grasp.

"_Who,_" she demanded in English, flinging her head high, "are you to ask?"

The redhead jumped the steps two at a time, landing awkwardly in front of them. His freckled face was blotchy in anger with a deep scarlet shade around his ears. He almost towered over Meri, but she didn't notice. The boy stood stiffly and clenched and unclenched his fists unconsciously. A few scattered students looked down at them curiously.

He ignored Meri. "What? So not only are you a complete jerk, but you hide behind a _girl_? Huh, Pole?"

Jean turned around and calmly looked him in the eye. "Is there something you want?"

"Yeah," the boy said, getting redder. "Yeah. There _is_ something I want." He strode forward and stabbed a finger at Jean's chest. "I want _you _to stop messing around with my sister."

Meri instantly slapped the redhead's hand away. "_Jean_ does not 'mess around' with anyone. Let alone your silly little sister. I'd advise you to get lost." She glared hotly up at him.

Again, he ignored her. That was _really_ starting to tick her off. No one ignored her.

"So, you swotty prat of an excuse for a champion, you get your kicks playing with girls' feelings, huh?" growled the boy. "You leave my sister alone, or else!" He roughly grabbed the front of Jean's robes.

"You brute! What do you know about _feelings_?" Meri hissed and shoved at him.

Jean's arm shot in front of her to push her away firmly. "Leave this to –" A strange look suddenly came on his face and his eyes turned cloudy. He staggered drunkenly. He muttered something unintelligible as his legs gave way beneath him. Jean fell awkwardly into the redhead's arms, unconscious.

Shocked, the boy stared down at him. "But I didn't touch him!"

Meri flew at him, enraged. "You brute! Animal! Asshole! Brute! What did you do to him?"

"I barely touched him!"

"Here, now! What's this?" an imperious voice demanded.

Abruptly, they noticed a ring of students had gathered around to ogle at the scene they had made. A severe-eyed, thin-lipped teacher waded through the crowd toward them. She quickly took in Jean slumped in the bewildered redhead's arms and Meri's fingers clawing viciously at his arms. Flicking her wand, she magicked a stretcher.

"Mister Weasley," the teacher said, nodding her head at the floating stretcher. The boy quickly placed Jean on it, Meri seething by his side. "Follow me, you two."

"Ma'am! This – this idiot boy _attacked _–" she began, striding along to the woman's pace.

"I didn't touch him!" interrupted the redhead angrily.

The teacher steered Jean carefully through the halls, students jumping quickly out of the way and gawking at them. Looking down at his still face made Meri's stomach squeeze.

"That's enough from both of you," the teacher said crisply. "I'll listen to your stories _after_ we get Mister Pole to the infirmary."

She stopped and swung open a pair of double doors. The infirmary was pristine and sterile smelling, a wall lined with mostly empty beds curtained with clean, white drapes. A nurse hurried toward them.

"Put him in this one, Minerva," she said, indicating a bed. The nurse inspected Jean's vitals as the severe teacher placed him gently on the white sheets. She flicked her wand to get rid of the stretcher. As the nurse continued to administer to the inert Jean, the teacher drew shut the curtain and turned toward them.

"What is your name, miss?" she asked, looking at Meri.

She straightened up. "Mariette Clehedault, ma'am." She boiled inwardly to burst out with all of her accusations, but suppressed the urge on thinking of what Jean would do.

"Let's hear your story first, then, Miss Clehedault."

The gangly redhead looked like he wanted to object.

Meri gave him a glower. "We – Jean and I – came up to the castle to go to the library and the Owlery. Then, when we were about to leave, _he_ –" She indicated the boy. "– started insulting Jean for no reason. He tried to pick a fight, but of course Jean refused. He grabbed him and then Jean collapsed." She folded her arms across her chest and looked at the teacher expectantly.

The woman turned to the boy. "And now you, Mister Weasley."

"Honest, Professor McGonagall," Weasley declared, "I barely touched the guy. I just poked him in the chest and grabbed his robes."

McGonagall's wrath did not seem to ebb. "_Why_ were you trying to provoke one of the school's foreign guests, the Beauxbatons champion, no less?"

Weasley mumbled something about his sister.

The teacher's expression turned even more severe. "Ginny Weasley can take care of herself. Much better than you could, certainly. Forty points from Gryffindor and a detention, Mister Weasley."

"That's it?" Meri demanded. "What about Jean? He _fainted_."

McGonagall's eyes snapped to her. "I highly doubt that Weasley here was the cause of that. Exhaustion or stress, considering his current circumstances, are much more likely culprits."

Behind her, the curtains rustled and the nurse looked out at them. "Could you come here for a minute, Minerva?"

"What is it, Poppy?"

The nurse tilted her head toward the bed blocked from their view. "You should look for yourself."

McGonagall frowned and entered through the hangings. The two women's bent silhouettes murmured softly.

Whirling on the redhead, Meri whispered angrily, "I hope you're happy. Something's wrong. I'm positive."

"It's not my fault!" Weasley shot back, his face reddening again.

"And Jean hasn't even been messing around with –" The infirmary door swung open, interrupting her. Two girls stumbled in, Ginny Weasley and another Meri recognized as the hoighty-toighty girl from the inter-school class. They looked disheveled and urgent.

"Ron! You idiot, why the _hell_ is everyone saying you punched out Jean's lights?" Ginny accused furiously.

"Really, Ronald, you'd think being an ex-prefect would leave _some_ integrity in your character," added the other.

He flung his hands up defensively. "I didn't _do _anything! And since when were you on first name basis with him?"

"Quiet!" barked McGonagall between a gash in the bed curtains. She stepped out. "Out. All of you. Poppy certainly won't stand for a commotion in her ward and neither will I."

"But ma'am..." Meri gazed at her pleadingly.

"All right. You may stay. But the rest must go." She gestured to the door.

Ron Weasley needed no other urging, but Ginny hesitated and only went out with the older girl's hand pushing her gently out the door.

Meri asked McGonagall worriedly, "Is Jean alright? Why haven't you revived him yet?"

The woman's face relaxed a little from its severe set. "We've tried. But he's reacting oddly to the magic." She paused. "Today – the potion Professor Snape was brewing for the Potters and Mister Pole was ready, wasn't it?"

Nodding slowly, Meri answered, "Yes. It turned negative." She was glad, too. The implications of being Harry Potter made her insides squirm.

The severity and thinness appeared again on the teacher's features. "Well, sit quietly here and don't bother the nurse." McGonagall left.

Meri did what she was told for once. She sat but couldn't help crossing and re-crossing her legs, fiddling with her clothes. She kept staring steadily at the shadowy forms inside the bed curtains. She found herself willing for this Poppy person to open them, say something, _anything_. Finally, she just stood up and slipped between the curtains.

The nurse glanced up, took one look at her, and gestured gently to a chair beside the bed. She sat down again quietly. Jean didn't look good. The color had oozed away from his face, leaving it pale and limp. One hand underneath his neck, Poppy coaxed a potion into his mouth and rubbed his throat to help it down. She stood back.

"I'll be back in one moment," the woman told Meri. "Come get me if anything changes."

She nodded. The curtains whispered as the nurse left. Meri stared at Jean's glasses on the bedside for something to look at beside Jean himself. Why had McGonagall asked her about the hereditary test this morning? Jean was _not_ some delicate invalid that couldn't take the stress of that and the coming tasks of the Triwizard. On the contrary, he could handle himself much more than anyone else she knew.

And, she had to admit, Ron Weasley knocking out Jean was entirely unlikely. (Which didn't excuse him from Meri begrudging his trying to start a fight, but that was beside the point.)

What if someone had tried to hurt Jean before? Because of the hereditary test? Meri could easily see how some people wouldn't want the Potters rediscovering the long lost child savior of the wizarding world, but Jean was Harviel Jean Pole. Not Harry Potter. Even if he were, though, You-Know-Who died a long time ago. He couldn't be back. Maybe some nutcase ex-Deatheater?

She suddenly heard anxious steps and hushed voices and the curtains parted. The nurse and a man with long black hair entered as behind them Madame Maxime peered down at Jean. Meri instantly shot out of her seat from habit. But the headmistress merely waved her back down.

"Why haven't you waken him up?" she asked, turning her liquid black eyes on Poppy.

Checking Jean over, the nurse replied with a frown, "No change... I've tried. But he's resisting all the potions I've given him and the spells I've used. I think his body is trying to tell us he just needs rest."

"But that's so strange," Meri said unhappily. "He only passed out. Why can't he just wake up?"

The man with black hair scrutinized Jean. "What have you used so far, Poppy?" Meri took a bit of distaste to his sour expression and sneering, commandeering way of speaking.

The nurse reeled off a list of different stimulants and energizing spells.

He nodded. "Have you tried a mental stabilizer?"

"The 1607 one?" Poppy said, surprised. "I don't see how that would do any good, Severus."

"No. The newer one. The older one was for women in hysterics over a lost necklace or some other drivel."

"Wait a moment," interrupted Madame Maxime. "What are you trying to give my student?"

Severus glanced at her. "Only a mind stabilizer. If it doesn't revive him, it will be harmless. Go on, Poppy."

"Really, he just needs his rest –"

"Just try it."

"Well," she answered doubtfully, "I suppose it couldn't hurt. I don't think it'll help either, though." She disappeared in her office for a moment and came back with a small flask and spoon in her hands.

Meri leaned over Jean, placing her hands underneath his neck to support him as Poppy dropped a small amount of green liquid onto his slack tongue. Meri helped him swallow it. A few minutes passed and miraculously the color flooded back into Jean's face and his body lost its almost rigor mortis-like stiffness. His shockingly green eyes fluttered open.

"Jean?" Meri asked worriedly, leaning on the bed with her arms folded.

He tried to sit up, but the nurse pushed him back firmly. "No you don't, Mister Pole. You need to rest." She felt his pulse again for probably the millionth time, peering into his eyes.

Dazed, Jean asked, "What's going on?"

The teacher with dark hair moved within his eyesight.

"Professor Snape? Did something happen in the dungeon?" Jean sort of squinted vaguely up at him. Meri got his glasses for him.

"What's the last thing you remember, Pole?" Snape questioned, looking critical. "Think a minute before you answer."

He frowned. "I was with you and the Potters. The potion turned negative. And I went down to the carriages. That's it."

Meri bent toward him. "Jean, don't you remember? We came back up to the castle."

"What?"

"We went to the library and the owlery. You sent a letter to Lawrence. Then that stupid Weasley boy starting calling you names and you fainted. Remember?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jean told her. He had lost the dazed look of just resurfacing into consciousness, but now he had the clarity of genuine confusion. "And I wouldn't faint just because some idiot started calling me names."

"No," she shook her head, "you fainted because – because..." She looked around at the teachers expectantly.

"Where is Dumbledore?" Madame Maxime suddenly asked. "Something is going on and I do not like it."

"I believe he's busy in his office at the moment," said Snape, turning his black gaze back on Jean. "Now, Pole –"

"Enough." Poppy straightened up and glared at them all fiercely. "You can talk to him later, all of you. He needs rest now. So save everything you have to say for tomorrow." She made shooing motions. Severus gave her a good sneer but left, and after they had asked Jean again if he were all right, so did Meri and Madame Maxime.

Headmistress told her firmly to go back to the carriage soon and strode off purposefully, dwarfing the grandiose Hogwarts halls. A group of Beauxbatons students approaching from the other direction stood back for her respectfully as she passed. They sighted Meri and hurried near.

"What's this we hear about Jean getting a shiner and then some from somebody's brother?" Jacques demanded.

"He isn't hurt is he?" asked Izumi, looking concerned.

"I heard somebody's tried to sabotage our chances in the Triwizard –"

"What? So first they get to have _two_ champions, and now this?"

"That's not what _I_ was told by this guy and he saw it all –"

" – you think they care? Noo – "

The infirmary door opened and the nurse's head shot out. "Quiet! Get out of here _this instant_!"

They fled. Pausing just outside of the overwhelming wooden doors into the entrance hall, Izumi looked up at Meri seriously.

"Really, Meri. What happened?"

She shook her head. "I'm not sure. We were minding our own business and this daft little boy, Ron Weasley, went off on Jean because his sister has a crush on him, or something. Then, he just passed out! Just like that."

He frowned. "Then why won't they let him out of the infirmary?"

"It took a while to get him awake. She said he needed rest."

They discussed it over walking toward the carriages, their fellow students scattering in various directions. Izumi thought it suspicious that Jean had just been to have his hereditary checked and then all of a sudden he collapsed. He also honed in when Meri told him about not remembering coming back up to the castle.

"That's really strange. Nobody suddenly loses almost an hour of their memories."

Meri gave him a look. "Why not? That and his passing out could just be side effects of stress."

"Jean doesn't pass out because of stress. You know that," Izumi told her.

"I think you're making too big of a deal out of all of this. He's fine now, so what do we need to worry about it for?"

"It's still strange," Izumi insisted. "If someone tried to hurt him –"

"Stop trying to act all clever," Meri snapped. "Jean's fine now. Like the nurse said, he just needs rest." She didn't want to think about him in any more danger than he should be. As _Jean Pole_. Not Harry Potter. Definitely _not_.

"Well." He looked at her, discomfitted. "I was just saying –"

"I know what you were saying. I just don't want to talk about it now." She stomped off, knowing she was going to regret being sharp about everything in the morning.

-

_Sometime earlier..._

He was up now. He was brushing off his clothes and looking around with a muddled expression. His memory should – yes, yes, he looked better now. He was going to the carriage where all the girls lived.

I sighed imperceptibly, sitting back on my heels. They couldn't, _couldn't_ find out. So I can't feel guilty about it. I can't. I can't.

I flipped my hood back over my head. The mask was here somewhere... Here. I brushed away a pile of leaves and put it back on. It had felt strange to be so long without it on. He'd be all right, though. He'd be all right. It was probably better for him anyway. Yes. That's exactly –

Suddenly, a hand fell on my shoulder heavily. "Well, kid. Guess we finally found you." I twisted around. Two figures overshadowed me like the trees.

-

**A/N**: Hur-hur. Cliffhanger. Sort-of. I'm finding I'm using a lot more OCs than I thought I would. Ah, well. I like them, so. But, I kind of liked Ron in this chapter. Usually I don't like him at all, but I did this time. I don't know. I don't really have anything to say, so I'm just rambling. Review, plzkthx.

(If you're confused about this chapter, I mentioned in the A/N for Eight that I gave you part of Nine, so I cut that out and now it's here. Sorry if you reread it or something.)


	10. Thrash

**We, In Faith**

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter Ten**: Thrash

Fresco smiled cheerfully down at the black figure beneath his hand. It jumped up and was several trees away before he could react. It moved more quickly than he could, anyway. Beside him, Minh tensed. Fresco shook his head. Anyone else wouldn't have known whether he was gesturing to the man beside him, the slight person watching them suspiciously, or even the forest itself. But Minh understood and relaxed, flicking his eye over Fresco. He could just imagine his annoyed look.

The dark cloak had its mask turned in their direction, the lifeless eyes and expressionless mouth making it inhuman. A black gloved hand poised with a clutched wand gave the only indication of a living soul beneath the shrouds.

"Hey, hey," Fresco said and raised his hands to show his defenselessness. "Look, we just want to talk to you."

"I've got nothing to say to you," returned the kid emotionlessly.

Fresco stuck his hands inside his robe pockets. "Then how come you're sticking around? Why don't you just run off if you're so uninterested?"

The figure didn't answer.

"Okay, then," declared Fresco, running a hand through his thick hair. "Here's what we want to say. We want to know where those two quacks went since we left. I know we –"

"Fresco." Minh was staring up through the trees in the direction of the school.

In an instant, the black cloak whipped through the trees and disappeared.

"Damn it, Minh –" He cursed but his hand was grabbed and his body jerked off before he could finish.

The leaves flurried in the green half-light splashed all over the forest floor. Minh dragged him stumbling further into the forest, the heady pine and leaf rot scent tangling in their legs like a teasing cat, but they were quickly frozen in place with a silent spell.

Fresco again cursed their bad luck. Minh was going to kill him.

-

Albus peered over his spectacles at the two young men seated on the other side of his desk. One, of sharply elegant and Asiatic features, lounged casually in his chair, a high, defined cheekbone resting on a fist. He stared back at Albus with one curt eye; the other socket was covered by an eye-patch. He was dressed like a muggle.

The other young man sat up attentively, a foot draped over his knee. He wore robes, neatly kept, but his sun-dashed hair forming a mane around his open and honest face flipped and flew everywhere. His face was tanned and good-looking. Neither one of them could be more than twenty-two or twenty-three.

James Potter and Sirius Black stood behind them and darted wary glances at the young men. Minerva was off to the side, looking stern and apprehensive.

"So," Albus said, smiling, "might I ask your names and what you were doing in the Forbidden Forest around our school? Forgive me, but you look a little old to be students."

The blond smiled back winningly. "Yes to the former, no to the latter. I'm Fresco and this is my associate Minh. You can ask us anything you want, but that doesn't mean we'll answer."

The other one, Minh, glared at his companion and spoke to him angrily. It wasn't a language Albus knew. Korean? Vietnamese, he thought. Fresco ignored him.

"That is true, of course," Albus conceded. "You're entitled to your silence, but at the moment the school grounds are off-limits to unauthorized individuals, which is clearly marked by signs. It would be unfortunate if we had to hand you over to Ministry officials if you had an understandable reason." He donned a mild expression.

Minh shot another angry remark at Fresco. This time he replied reassuringly in the same language. But he didn't seem placated and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit a smoke expertly with a match, letting quick ropes of acrid, pungent vapors coil around the relatively cozy office. Fawkes, nearing one of his death days, flittered feebly and looked up. Taking a drag, Minh returned Minerva's dirty look.

"Would you tell him to put that out?" she said to Fresco. "The smell is unbearable."

He hesitated but said something to the other. Minh replied in a rude tone.

"What did he say?" Minerva demanded.

"Nothing," Fresco answered offhandedly. Minh gave him a look to kill.

He looked Minerva directly in the eye and snapped out in a throaty voice, "I said you can go f –" Fresco instantly clamped a hand over his mouth. The blond seemed to scold him in the foreign language again. He dropped his hand and Minh did nothing but take another inhale from the cigarette.

Minerva drew up severely. "If he spoke English, then why –"

"No harm done, Minerva," Albus said, feeling his eyes shine amusedly.

Fresco turned to Albus and said apologetically, "I'm sorry. I know we seem pretty shady, but, honestly, we're not here to cause trouble or hurt anyone. We hadn't even meant to leave the forest."

He studied the two again. Fresco looked sincere, Minh rather sullen and almost embarrassed. "Would you object if we checked your wands? Circumstances have arisen today where we must be especially careful."

"Go ahead. I've got nothing to hide." The blond leaned back in his seat, an unreadable look passing between him and the pale-toned Minh.

"If you have nothing to hide," Minerva cut in sharply, "then you ought to be telling us why you were on our school grounds."

Fresco smiled again. "Well, a few things to hide, I guess."

"The wands, James, Sirius?" Albus looked up at the two, a bit of twinkle in his eye.

James pulled a thin blade of wood out of his pocket. He stepped around the two and handed it to Albus. "I only found one on them, Professor."

He took the wand and gave it a small flick. "_Prior Incantato_." A few ghostly remnants of charms and spells manifested from the tip of the wand, but none of them had the ability to alter a person's memory. He flicked the wand again, cleaning up the wisps.

"Only _one_?" he asked James, but looking at the young men.

Fresco shifted. "Minh doesn't need one."

"What?" Sirius asked, surprised. "He doesn't do wandless magic, surely?"

"If you've gone and hidden it, you might as well tell us now. Eventually it'll be found," added James.

"I don't need one," Minh said simply in his curiously ragged voice. "I'm a squib." He continued smoking.

Sirius's jaw practically hit the floor. "A squib?"

"That's what I said." Minh gave him a look as if he were speaking to an imbecile.

Albus could understand Sirius's astonishment. The young man hardly fit the bill of what society stereotyped squibs as. He was self-assured, verging on rudeness, and young and healthy and tall. Most thought of squibs as small, pathetic middle-aged men beginning to bald.

"Here," Fresco intervened, "are you done with us? We need to be going."

"I think –" Albus paused. Several voices swelled up to them from the door leading out to the spiral staircase.

" – _fine_. I just want to know what in Merlin's name is going on."

The door pivoted open, emitting a vexed Poppy, an irked Jean Pole and Madame Maxime, and a reserved Severus. Albus thought it very surprising indeed that one: Jean had managed to pull himself from Poppy's clutches long enough to get to his office, and two: that Madame Maxime was fitting into the small room without absolutely crowding them all into little nooks and crannies. Even after all these years, Hogwarts continued to amaze him with its little tricks.

"Now look, he's busy at the moment," Poppy admonished Jean. "Get back to the infirmary and _rest_ like I told you to."

"But I feel fine," he insisted. And he looked it, too. His face held the touches of neither paleness nor fatigue and he seemed to have quite enough energy to spare. "I just want to know why –" Jean spotted the two men seated in front of Albus's desk. Astonishment jumped into his face.

"Fresco? Minh? What are you doing here?"

They gave each other a look. As they stood up, Albus noticed how very tall they were. Fresco was maybe a centimeter or two shorter than Minh, who was much thinner, leaner. Minh put out his cigarette on the arm of his chair.

Fresco grinned at Jean. "Hey, kid. Just passing through. You're still going to win that money for François, yeah?"

"Yeah, of course I am, but," he answered, still looking confused, "I thought you were still in Spain?"

"Made an unexpected detour." The blond passed a hand through his hair. "Need to head out, though. All right, professor?" Fresco looked expectantly at Albus.

He paused but nodded. He handed the wand back to Fresco. "You may go. Take care not to wander onto the grounds again. You'll get my staff all in a fluster again." Sirius, James, and Minerva looked as if they sorely wanted to object. He shook his head at them.

"Sure thing," replied Fresco easily. He headed to the door, Minh behind him. As he passed Jean, he patted his shoulder.

"Good seeing you again," he smiled. "Take care of yourself. We'll get around to Paris soon."

Jean lifted and dropped his head in acquiescence. "Sure. Don't get yourselves in too much trouble."

Fresco laughed and stepped lightly out the door. Minh glanced at Jean.

"Hey, you'll have to give me another ride soon," he told the tall, older man.

He flicked his thin, glossy hair out of his eyes. "Sure." Minh walked out after Fresco. The door clicked softly.

"How do you know those two gentlemen, Jean?" Albus inquired politely.

The boy looked around at him, at the other occupants of the room, and settled his eyes back on Albus. "They're old friends. Why were they here?"

"That is what we would like to know," he answered with a smile in his eyes. "We found them just on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Unfortunately, unauthorized individuals are not allowed on the grounds because of the tournament... Do you trust them, Jean?"

Now, the boy was suspicious. He nodded slowly, his brow lowered. "Yes. They're good guys. They've both helped me a lot."

"You don't think they'd try to hurt you?" interjected James suddenly.

Jean snapped, "_No, I don't_. Why is everyone telling me I lost an hour of my memory? Why is _he – _" He gestured to Severus. " – asking me all these questions?"

Albus looked at Severus. The Potions Master gave a gave a bit of a sour look to all the eyes abruptly on him. Or maybe that was how he always looked. Albus couldn't tell much anymore.

"I've been asking you questions, Mister Pole," Severus said slowly, "because something went odd with the hereditary potion; it wasn't supposed to react violently like it did. The fact you fainted not long afterwards, the way you had to be revived, and the gap in your memory – it leads one to believe you were not really there in the dungeons with myself and the Potters."

James stared at Severus, for once not making foolish, derogatory comments. "Snape, are you saying –"

Jean interrupted. "I'm sorry, but I still don't think it's possible. I am _not_ H– "

"Let's suspend disbelief for a moment," Severus said coolly. "Perhaps this mess wasn't because you _are_ Harry Potter, but _might have been_. If the Jean Pole that gave a sample to the hereditary potion this morning was an imposter, I suspect he or she over-powered you when you were about to walk up to the castle. This person disguised themselves as Jean Pole, and took your place during the appointment you made with the Potters and myself."

Severus held all of the room's occupants' attentions, each individual with their own mixed feelings evident in his or her expressions.

"For some reason, the potion reacted strangely to the imposter," continued the Potions Master, "and he or she went back to where I suppose they had hidden the real, unconscious Jean Pole. Now, here is where I'm positive about the facts. The imposter _forcibly_ removed your memories concerning being seized and again force fed your mind his or her memories of the hereditary potion. Any mind, of course, reacts badly to that sort of treatment, and Mister Pole passed out. When he awoke, he had forgotten everything that had happened after the time I'm supposing the attacker replaced his memories."

A blend of uneasiness and fear came over Jean's face. "You mean by the same method used for Pensives?"

With a Pensive, you remove a burdensome memory and store it away for contemplation on another day. But if instead of a shallow bowl, you give a memory to another person, their minds will 'adopt' it as its own. It was a very crude way to make a person forget something and 'remember' something else that had never occurred to them. A mind is a complex thing, and so defends itself by completely shutting down when it finds alien memories shoved into itself. Jean's mind needed the time to restore itself, and the mental stabilizer Severus had recommended had helped. But in the mean time, his mind had to let go of that one hour of recently acquired memories in order to recover.

"But why wouldn't he just use a spell?" Sirius asked, looking just as anxious as his best friend did.

Severus glanced at him. "This method leaves no magical trace. I suspect, also, that if you go over the grounds again, especially near the Beauxbatons carriages, you'll find there's not a trace of a spell that could have knocked Mister Pole out."

Most spells left a residue in the area they were used. It was a fact manipulated by Aurors many times to track down criminals.

"But we could look for the trace of what he used to disguise himself," James said, his face saying his mind was going over the possibilities and details of the situation like any other case he handled at the Ministry. "It must have been Polyjuice, right? Nothing else could have been so good at making a replica like the one we saw." He looked angry at the idea. Albus suspected he was getting his hopes up again.

Severus pressed his lips into a thin line. "That is where I'm finding it hard to rationalize. My potion wouldn't have reacted the way it did if it were just Polyjuice. It would simply turn black, and that would be that. But it responded violently. And besides, I've put a charm on my rooms to _keep out _strange magics. I would have known if someone who had drank Polyjuice were in the room."

"But it did alert you, right?" James demanded.

"Yes," Severus looked at him sourly, "but that was the clue-potion in his pocket. I used a very specific charm. Also, Polyjuice wasn't the only thing it would have told me about. Any other disguise glamours would set it off, too."

"So what was it? How did this person manage to disguise himself so well?" Madame Maxime asked. She had one of her large hands clamped onto Jean's shoulder, who rather than seeming to buckle under the weight, stared intensely at Severus.

The Potions Master paused. "I don't know. All I can say is, this was a very crafty individual."

"Can't we just fix Jean's mind?" Sirius asked. The boy stiffened at the turn of phrase. "I mean, they do that all the time right? Get back people's memories?"

"I wouldn't recommend it," Albus said. "The very crude way in which his mind was tampered with – trying to fix it would cause more harm than good, I believe."

"Well then," Poppy suddenly announced at her place beside Minerva. She looked a little anxious after hearing all of their talk. "Well then, if there's nothing you can do at the moment, Mister Pole ought to be doing as I told him and go have a good night's _rest_." She strode toward him and put a firm hand around his arm.

Madame Maxime nodded. "You should, Jean. Go on."

He looked almost as if he wanted to object but then consented.

James stopped them before they went out the door. "Look, Jean, would you consider retaking the hereditary potion? You know, since all of this stuff apparently happened?"

The boy studied him. He shook his head, his face pensive. "I don't think so, Mister Potter. It doesn't seem exactly beneficial to one's health to be connected to Harry Potter. I'm sorry."

"That's okay, kid." He tried to hide it, but James sounded disappointed. "You do what Poppy says. She can get pretty mean when she wants to."

Poppy left with Jean in tow, their steps on the stairs below rebounding up to the office.

James turned to Severus with a wry, melancholy grin. "So, Snape, how come you spent so much time racking your greasy noodle over this? Thought you hated my living guts."

Severus sneered. "Don't worry Potter, I do. This was a matter of pride. I can't just let someone dupe me and get away scot-free."

"Sirius, I'd like it if you and Severus go over the grounds, just in case," Albus told them. "Why don't you go get Remus, too?" Maybe he'd be able to keep the two from chopping each other up into bite-size pieces. "And, James, why don't you go talk to Lily? Congratulations again, by the way."

James smiled. "Sure. I guess there's not much else we can do."

-

"_Another one_? What the hell are they, _rabbits_!"

Bartemius Crouch, Jr. glared at the crouched figure, as if it was _his_ fault the Potters were having another baby. The disfigured, weakened Dark Lord in the chair grumbled and puffed as if he were out of breath simply from the effort it took to yell.

"And due on that cursed date, no less."

"My Lord, would you like me to kill Lily Potter now?" Crouch asked eagerly.

"...No. Not yet. It's too risky. After I have my body back, when I can call my... _loyal_ servants to me, it will be utterly simple to kill _all_ of them." He paused a moment, more to catch his breath than anything else. "Is there something else you want to report, Führer?"

The kneeling figure stirred. "No, nothing, My Lord."

"... Are you lying to me?" The icy tone sent quivers down Crouch's spine.

"No, Lord."

"...Fine. I believe you. Don't be a fool and try to mess with that boy again. Go keep an eye on Lily Potter. Come back only if necessary. Or, better yet, if she has a miscarriage." The Dark Lord laughed shrilly.

-

Jean closed his eyes and drew his hands up under the pillow beneath the side of his face. Madam Pomfrey, which she had told Jean was her name, continued to bustle around the nearly empty ward for a few minutes in the dark cleaved by only the stillness of the moon and her paramours, the stars. He had spent the rest of the day staring up at the ceiling since Madam Pomfrey wouldn't let him move an inch from the infirmary bed; it seemed to take forever for night to come. Finally, the nurse went through a door and silence settled throughout the long room.

He waited a few minutes before sitting up in bed. He swung his feet to the floor and put on his slippers and robe, his things having been brought up to the castle by someone. He made sure to grab his wand and a small pouch from his possessions. Cautiously, Jean stuck his head through the curtains, saw no one, and left the infirmary silently.

The castle was hollow and dim, a mere skeleton of the bustling, loud, bright body of students and teachers and ghosts it was during the day. Jean swiveled his eyes down the corridor and simply chose a direction and began walking.

For a little while, he could only wander around and peek through every door he came to, but eventually he found an empty room he supposed was a teacher's office. It had a fireplace. He slid in and closed the door, putting a charm on it to alert him if someone came near. Locking it would just make it obvious someone was intruding.

He shuffled toward the fireplace and knelt. Giving his wand a quick twist, he lit a fire, big enough for his purpose but small enough not to make someone suspicious. He took the pouch from his pocket and untied it. Taking a pinch-full of the Floo powder, he flung it into the fireplace. The flames leapt up eagerly, devouring the green dust. He whispered an address loudly and stuck his head into the emerald blaze.

His head spun and turned and whirled through the Floo system, the call taking longer because of the greater distance. Finally, the lurching stopped and Jean could see out into a small study. Rich, dark cherry wood lined the room and deep-set bookshelves filled to the brim covered every wall. In front of Jean's nose lay an oriental carpet and a plush leather recliner. Beyond sat a desk with papers and books ordered neatly across its green felt top. A door led out of the study into a living room where a man stood, his back turned to Jean.

"Doctor. Doctor Swann¹."

The man in the other room started and turned around. He stared at Jean's head in the fireplace, hurrying forward. The man was in his late fifties, early sixties and had a full head and neat beard of tawny hair splashed with white. His face was handsomely aged, his unusual muted violet eyes overshadowed with generous brows. He wore pajamas, slippers, and a robe like Jean.

"Jean, how are you?" His tone was casual, but his eyes concerned. He knelt in front of the fireplace easily. The Doctor was in very good shape for his age.

"I'm fine..." Jean trailed off, suddenly unsure of himself. They were both speaking English, Jean with his French accent and the Doctor with his British one.

Doctor Swann frowned. "What is wrong, Jean? As much as you delight in my humble company, you usually do not call at near midnight to have a chat."

Jean sighed. He told the doctor everything – the hereditary potion, the Potters, all of the suspicions of Professor Snape.

The older man listened silently and nodded every now and then. When Jean finished, he rubbed his beard thoughtfully.

"Would you mind terribly if I sat, Jean?" he asked.

"Go ahead."

The Doctor sank into the leather chair and looked down at him. "I wish you had called me earlier, Jean. I would have liked to have helped you decide what to do. Not that you made a wrong choice; you can never make a wrong choice, only ones particular to your person."

"I didn't want to trouble you. And it was sort of a spur of the moment, foolhardy thing I did."

"You are never a trouble to me, Jean. You know that. Do you regret it?"

"Not really."

"Yes or no, Jean," Doctor Swann said rotely, "'not really' is a –"

" – barely more articulate shrug of the shoulders," Jean smiled. "Yeah, I know." The Doctor was a stickler for things like that. "I don't regret it. Honest."

"Good." He smiled, too. But became more serious as he said, "I think you can trust Severus Snape's judgement. He is well known as an excellent Potions Master and scholar. His recent papers and treatises have been very impressive." He paused. "Also, I have an idea of what you might be thinking now. And I agree, it _is_ a similar situation."

Jean said nothing, watching the man anxiously.

"But, if, _if_, mind you, this imposter is genuine and by some obscure possibility was there that day," continued the Doctor, "then, Jean, I must implore you to keep your head and not do anything foolish. I think all you can do now is keep your wits about you and focus on the tournament. You set a goal for yourself, and now you need to follow through. Do not become distracted by this."

"I wasn't planning to."

"Also," the man said with a touch of hesitation, "I think you need to put that day behind you. We have discussed this before, but I want to know your mind set about it now."

Jean thought a moment. "I don't think I'm ready yet. I had a dream again a while ago. And I got really worked up about it. And on Christmas, when I couldn't be in France, I couldn't stand it. I thought I would go off the wall. I felt like dying."

"But you are attempting it?"

"Yes. I really want to. I hate feeling like this, but I just seem to take one step forward and two steps back. I think the exhibition might help. So I'm trying to work hard for that and I'm not about to give it up."

Doctor Swann nodded. "Good. What about the Potters, Jean? I admit, you startled me there. Suddenly finding oneself to be Harry Potter, of all people – it seems fantastical. But also a burden. Did you mean it when you told James Potter you would not take another hereditary test?"

"I did," Jean answered. "The first one seems pointless to me now. I already have my life planned ahead and it doesn't exactly include reemerging to the world as the defeater of You-Know-Who."

"Plans often do not go as expected, Jean," commented the older man, "but if that is your decision, so be it." They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Well, the Doctor sat; Jean floated amid green flames. "How is Mariette?"

"Oh, she's fine," Jean said. "Her usual, lovely self."

Doctor Swann smiled. "I remember vividly. Take care of her, Jean. She is a wonderful friend to you. She might be getting a little upset over these recent events."

He blinked but nodded. "I should have thought of that." The charm on the door suddenly tugged at him. "I'm sorry, Doctor, I need to go."

"All right, Jean. Good night. Send me an owl soon."

"I will," he promised and pulled himself out of the fireplace. Soot scattered from his hair and face. He brushed himself off quickly, glancing around the unknown teacher's office again and left silently.

-

"Oh, that's _fantastic_," Jean remarked sarcastically. He gazed down at the tabloid article Meri, amused, had placed in front of him. The headline 'Jean Pole – Caught Between Three Beauties' glared up at him coquettishly. The article, by Rita Skeeter herself, was filled with drivel, from column to column, about Jean pulled among the mysterious, the wild, the (gaspgasp) sexy Su Li, the incredibly gorgeous, long-time friend Mariette Clehedault, and the down-to-earth, average every-day-girl, Ginny Weasley. It was insipid and asinine.

Breakfast usually meant a relaxed affair compared to the evening when they were ordered to dine with Headmistress. But today, Jean's classmates jibed him playfully about the article as they passed. No doubt the students up in Hogwarts were having a fit. He sounded like some sort of gigolo according to the article.

"I wouldn't worry about it Jean," Izumi said, trying not grin as he buttered a slice of toast. "These things blow over pretty quickly."

Meri hunched over the table, helpless in silent laughter. "Poor – poor, poor, poor Jean!" She giggled.

Jean gave her a sour look. She seemed much more cheerful than earlier, when he had finally been released from the Hogwarts Infirmary and walked quickly down to Headmistress's carriage where the Beauxbatons students always had breakfast. Sitting about the round tables placed here and there, the others looked up when he entered. Some stood to ask him if he were all right while others hailed him from their seats. Meri hugged him with a look of relief. When she asked what had happened, he told her not to worry about it, that he would tell her more later. She then promptly shoved Rita Skeeter's article in front of his nose.

Jean gave the magazine to a passing house elf in disgust. "Go throw that away. And every other copy you can find."

"Aw, is poor Jeanie-Jean all upset?" Meri cooed. She turned intensely solemn and serious for a moment. "Jean, I can't _believe_ you'd cheat on me with these – these – these hussies!" Everyone in hearing vicinity laughed loudly. They all knew better than to actually believe Jean and Meri, or either of the other two, were an item.

"Shut-up," he said irritably and left in a huff to get his books from his bedroom. He spent the rest of the day fending off teasing remarks both spoken and written on bits of parchment from everyone in his class. Not only that, but Headmistress gave him funny looks all throughout her lectures and apparently couldn't see the forest of quivering hands when she asked a question and honed in on Jean alone every time. When class ended, she called him up to stay after. He had to apologize profusely for letting his image be misrepresented to the public. He promised to be more careful from now on.

Needless to say, he was rather rankled by the end of the day. Still, he did not forget about what the Doctor told him. Jean dumped his books on his bed and kneeled in front of his battered chest. He rummaged around until he found his Firebolt, the broom he received as a Christmas gift three years ago from his friends and Lawrence.

He ran a polishing cloth over it quickly, admiring the sleek lines and the stiffness of the bristles. Looking through the chest again, Jean found the snitch Cordelia had sent him this Christmas. It was a tradition between them; she always gave him a snitch. Jean propped the broom against his shoulder, fingering the snitch, and walked out into the hallway. He stepped lightly down the stairs. The boys looked up.

"I'm going for a fly," Jean said simply.

They all grinned and closed their books with little papery 'oomph's and tossed down their quills with a clatter. Jean walked out the door and down the steps, his classmates following him jauntily. They marched up to the girls' carriage. Jean rapped at the door, swung it open, and leaned in the doorway casually.

"I've decided we all need a break and that I should try out Hogwarts's Quidditch field," he announced gravely.

The girls grinned and abandoned their homework. As she pulled her coat on, Meri laughed and slipped her hand around Jean's arm. They all filed out the door as a single body.

"You'll have to give us a real show today," Meri said mock-severely.

Jean began playing with his snitch, letting it go and quickly catching it. "I wouldn't dream of doing otherwise."

Jacques jogged out of place and began walking backwards in front of Jean and Meri. "Behold, ye simple plebeians! The almighty, all magnificent Voltage!"

The others let out a loud cheer. The Hogwarts Quidditch stadium loomed above them. Jean headed out to the field while the others split off to climb up in the stands. He mounted his Firebolt, feet dug into the firm turf, staring up around the stadium. It was just like the Beauxbatons one, large, airy, and full of potential whirling blurs and crashing balls. He might as well be back home but for the four banners loudly proclaiming the four Hogwarts houses instead of the Beauxbatons three.

He loved Quidditch – the furious speed of the game, the freedom flying beyond gravity's reach meant – and his House loved winning every House Championship for the past six years. Even the other Houses had a sort of pride in Jean's flying. It was too bad he couldn't compete this year, but the Triwizard meant more to him right now.

The Firebolt jumped eagerly in his hands. He laughed. "All right, all right." He pushed up hard against the ground and his broom leapt up into the cold breeze fiercely. The rushing air caught in his hair and snagged his clothes as he made lazy circles around the field, slowly rising higher. He could hear a faint chanting from the direction of where his classmates sat.

"_Volt-age! Volt-age! Volt-age!_"

'Voltage' was the stupid nickname someone had given him in first year for his flying style. Well, if they wanted to see Voltage in action, so be it. He continued to gain altitude leisurely, his cheeks stinging with the icy air and his breath turning to fog when it left his prickling lips. Finally, he halted right over the middle of the field. He was so high his friends were mere specks below. The Firebolt shivered excitedly in his hands. He grinned and leaned forward until he was parallel with the broom, applying an expert pressure to the nose. He snapped downward like a whip, absolutely vertical.

The air roared in his ears, assaulting every square inch of his body. The ground rushed up at him quickly, as if it were the one flying and not Jean. He could hear some of the girls screaming just for the hell of it. He held the broom steady in his hands, the two melding into one and bolting downward to meet the unforgiving turf. Just before they crashed, Jean turned the Firebolt again at a ninety-degree angle, his knees whipping through the close-cut grass.

His audience yelled and cheered. Circling toward them lazily, he waved.

Jean bent down against his broom again and they shot forward. He navigated a frenetic arch around the stadium and zigzagged through the goal hoops, not letting himself touch an inch. He whipped toward the others, making as if to crash into them and quickly speeding away. They bellowed at him in half-hearted anger.

Someone let his snitch go and Jean caught it several times easily in a matter of seconds. Or he teased it by letting it fly free for a few minutes before striking down on it effortlessly. Jean performed a few more high-paced tricks, dives and flying upside down, before slowing his Firebolt to an easy butterfly speed. He hovered before Meri.

"Hand me your scarf," Jean told her, peeling off his cumbersome coat, putting his glasses into one of the pockets, and tossing it to waiting hands below.

She untied the silk scarf from around her neck, letting it flutter up to him. His Firebolt humming beneath him, Jean tied the delicate thing around his eyes and behind his head. Blindfolded, he saluted the others nonchalantly and shot up into the winds frustrated by not being able to thrust Jean down to the ground where he belonged.

Even without his eyes, he already knew every inch of the field. It was too similar to the Beauxbatons one for him not to. He dived again magnificently. His Firebolt held steady, unwilling to let Jean fall on his head. He knew that although he could maneuver through the flashy tricks easily when blindfolded, his broom would save him if he screwed up too badly.

He sensed the snitch nearby and caught it idly, the fragile wings wiggling in his hand. Jean released it again and darted after it. He held the tiny thing in his hand, hovering for a moment in midair. He tore off his blindfold and stared down at the small, gold ball, thrashing so furiously against its hopeless situation between his fingers. He let it go. The snitch arched away, becoming blurry in Jean's eyesight until he could no longer spot it against the dazzling blue sky.

-

¹ – Dr. Swann is actually a wizard who was trained as a Healer and then later went to muggle college to get his Ph.D. Jean calls him 'Doctor' instead of 'Healer' simply because he thinks it sounds more respectful.

-

**A/N**: This was a shorter chapter, but it has a lot of substance to it, so I hope that balances it out. Plus, it came out quickly and I'm planning (cross your fingers) to have the Second Task in the next chapter. Don't count on it being particularly spectacular, though, because I really want to get past the Triwizard.

Oh, and I know some people didn't like the idea of Führer's name, but don't over-think it too much. It's just supposed to be ironic, is all. Voldemort gave it to him and I'm sure he has a twisted sense of humor. This won't make sense until you know his identity and that won't be for a long, _long_ time. Sorry.

And. Fresco and Minh! I love them. You will, too.


	11. Oxygen

**We, In Faith**

By King

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**: Oxygen

* * *

His jaw cracking in a great yawn, Fresco pushed himself up in bed. The hotel room was dim with winter light, musty with the use of years. The chairs, the furniture, and the walls were shabbier than he cared to notice; he decided to again try and persuade Minh to let them move somewhere a bit nicer. It's not like they couldn't afford it.

He tossed the threadbare sheets aside and stumbled across the room. He glanced down at a thick manila folder containing his unfinished manuscript; his agent would be in a suicidal panic soon if he continued to ignore his long past deadline any longer. Combing a casual hand through his hair, Fresco peered out the blinds. Minh was walking across the grease-slicked concrete towards the building.

Fresco stepped out and waved. Minh ran a silent eye over him, holding out a warm styrofoam cup. He took a grateful gulp of the coffee, freezing in his boxers and tee-shirt. They headed back inside.

"How long have you been up?" Fresco asked, sitting at the table.

"Since six." Minh flopped on the bed, the springs screeching. He lit a cigarette.

Fresco decided against pestering him with reprovals of that bad habit. "Why don't we get out of this rat-hole?"

He ignored him, taking drags and staring at the ceiling.

"Honestly, I think we'll be fine now. It's been over two weeks."

He kicked off his shoes, his only deviation from unresponsiveness.

"Minh, c'mon. I can't write here. We can go home, even. I don't mind. I just want to finish up the manuscript and then we'll head out again."

Minh finally answered, his tenor roughed over like a copper statue left to rust. "I still think that was fucking stupid of you."

"Which part?"

"Telling the old man our names. Giving him your wand. Getting us _caught_. And letting him _search your mind_."

Fresco had admitted that he had felt Dumbledore feeling out the crannies of his mind with Ligilimency and had made no effort to fend him off. Thankfully the older wizard hadn't intruded into things he had wanted to keep to himself, but Minh couldn't care less. "Yeah, well, he's not a bad man, Dumbledore, and he was just concerned," he said, sheepishly. "We've been in worse scrapes before."

Minh said nothing for a minute, beating out a rhythm with his feet against the end of the bed. "Are you going to try and tell Pole about him?"

"You think he'd believe us? No, whatever the kid did will clear up. Anyway, I don't think he really wants to hurt Jean."

Minh was silent.

"Why do you ask?"

"Don't give a damn either way. Just want to know what you're planning."

"Well, we're not bound to pick up the trail again anytime soon. We might as well take a break and then try to find him again."

"We're going to be keeping an eye on Pole?"

Fresco shrugged and nursed his coffee. "That seems to be where he's focusing. Tell you the truth, I don't like the fact he's been so easy to watch so far. Most of the time he's jumping all over the world. If he's told old Voldie about us, which I doubt he has, then we'll get our hides skinned if he decides to set us up or something like that."

Minh sat up, grinning cruelly. "I'd like to see them try."

He gave him a bemused look. "I wish you didn't have to... Well, I'm sorry, you know. About dragging you all over the place and getting us in trouble all the time."

He snorted. "Don't be a pansy. It's not like I mind. It's a helluva a lot better than waiting around for you to write your shitty novels."

Fresco laughed. "Yeah, my shitty novels."

-

Jean stood on the dry grass, idly twirling his wand between his fingers. Kurkov, Malfoy, and Potter stood near, gazing at the gathering crowd of bleary students. The Hogwarts Quidditch stadium towered over them, random globes of light pirouetting through the darkness like shining, harmless bludgers. The stadium had been magically heated for the event in the freezing February night. The stars and the full moon gleamed overhead.

He glanced suddenly at the judges table and the Potters standing by it. Things had simmered down in the month since that incident with the hereditary potion. Dumbledore had asked James and Lily to use their influence to get the Magical Enforcement Department at the British Ministry to perform a very quiet investigation. To Jean's great relief, no one noticed the paltry number of high-quality investigators who came and left with no disturbance. They could find nothing to lend an insight to who had tampered with Jean, even when a specialist from St. Mungo's came to examine him.

Which he wouldn't have agreed to if Lawrence hadn't been there. It turned out Madame Maxime had called his legal guardian to inform him of the abnormal events. Lawrence had hurriedly Floo'ed in, convincing Jean to have some faith and not inhibit the investigation. He acquiesced, answering their questions and letting them run their tests. They unearthed nothing.

Lily and James Potter had approached Lawrence and him. To their appeal, his uncle had merely said it was Jean's choice alone. Jean could only repeat what he'd said to James before. They let it be at that. Afterwards, Jean only had to worry about people pestering him about the Rita Skeeter article. His classmates were endurable; they only joked and quickly lost interest. But the Hogwarts lot, a very large lot indeed, was a different matter. He could hardly step out on the grounds without stares and giggles and obnoxious queries following him.

Su Li and Meri rode the waves of infamy with hilarity, but Jean felt bad about Ginny Weasley. He had no doubt she was humiliated. Moreover, he was suspicious about the article's contents; it alluded to events no reporter should have an inkling of. But the days and weeks passed and fascination died down. Now the second task had finally come upon them, by no means catching Jean unawares.

He fingered his wand again, watching as Bagman stood, magicking his throat.

"Quiet, please! Quiet!" The man grinned up at the stands. "I'm sure you're all _dying_ to know how the second task of the Triwizard Tournament will play out!

"In the first task, our contestants received clues giving them the star coordinates of where they must travel, without Apparition, and a warning that they must reach this spot within an hour to recover something very dear to them. This place – is the moon!" The ridiculous man gestured jerkily toward said burning orb in the night sky. The crowd murmured.

Unsurprised, Jean glanced at the others. Malfoy and Kurkov looked determined, Potter a bit queasy. He felt a bit of a tug on his insides, wondering what they had used as his 'treasure.'

"Now, Ministry officials shall follow each contestant in case of emergency," he waved toward four stern-faced wizards and witches. "Also, we'll be able to track their progress through these glow-globes; each official will take one with them. The screens you see above the stadium will project what will be happening above our heads."

Four of the luminescent bludgers swung around Jean and the others. High above, four flat sheets of multicolored lights revealed Kurkov's scowl, Malfoy's sneer, Jean's annoyed glance, and Potter's trepidation.

"Champions? Are you ready? On my whistle, then. To the count of three, then! One... two... three, go!"

The whistle screeched through the drowsy countenances of the students and the very alert ones of the four champions. Jean instantly whipped his wand in an arch over his head, muttering the bubble charm perfectly from rote practice. A delicate green sphere appeared and surrounded him. He deftly made sure the pressure, capacity, and temperature adjustments were perfect. He hadn't been slacking this past month.

He charmed the bubble for propulsion and instantly lanced upward, cleaving the night with a streak of afterimage. One of the officials shot up with him, a bobbing light enclosed in his bubble. The stadium shriveled into a speck under a millisecond, Hogwarts and the tiny village following almost simultaneously. The g-forces bashed and beat him, and clouds clawed at his bubble; he struggled to stay standing. The night was falling on him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jean could see Malfoy and Kurkov racing in their own bubbles to catch up with him. Potter was nowhere in sight. Grimly, he gripped his wand even tighter and gave strength to his bubble's thrust against gravity. He arched ahead and his Ministry escort hurried after. Jean felt the burst out of the atmosphere intrinsically. His sight locked hungrily onto the insanely huge moon.

He suddenly crashed to his knees, his bubble spinning erratically. Gaining control again, he looked angrily over to where Malfoy and Kurkov, their bubbles still speeding, were yelling at each other furiously. Jean ignored them, regaining his lead. He fingered his wand again, still unsure if he should try his trump card. Kurkov threatened to pass him and a mass of bobbing, disfigured lights flickered in and out of view ahead – blackburns. That decided it for him.

He raised his wand, feeling the firmly called out spell taking hold of his skin, his bones, and his innards. Intricate pinpoints of pain made a complex lace over his body. His bones ached so that he wanted to rip them out, and organs writhed and twisted within him. Thrashing, he was cramped and could feel his legs and arms being lost in a void that wanted to rend him into oblivion. He suddenly knew beyond a doubt the bubble was poison now.

He flicked a wing (a _wing_) and it evaporated. Dark space enfolded him in its silence and heft. The coolness felt invigorating, and the sudden bereftness of gravity felt liberating. If Jean could have grinned, he most certainly would have. _It had worked_.

Having found a reference to an elusive and complex bird-star creature in a book a few weeks ago, Jean had snatched up any other scrap of information he could on the thing. It was translucent and not definably related to any earth-bound creature. Apparently unaffected by the perils of space, the Shooting Bird had never been known to come anywhere near the atmosphere of Earth. There were accounts of some coming too close and simply melting away as it touched the gases that gave life to others. The birds were apparently frightened of the huge metal contraptions muggles sent into space. The creatures were often mistaken for shooting stars. It was said they took delight in throwing off the calculations of divinationists.

People speculated if it was related to a more common space creature – the blackburn. Blackburns were mindless balls of black light that would slowly feed on radiation from the sun and then latch on to a more complex form (most often the atmosphere's gases) and simply gorge itself to death. They were invisible to muggles and those without magic. Their reproduction processes were mysteries and people could never observe them long enough to make a good study; blackburns were too attracted to the bubbles used to enter space.

Jean had studied the Shooting Bird as thoroughly as he could, analyzing it to every last detail. He filled scrolls and scrolls of notes on a proposed transfiguration. It had been a definite risk to try it, but it was worth it considering the measly bubbles normally used could never match the speed of the bird.

Jean spread his wings, unfeathered and mellifluous, to their full width. He began to pump them and quickly tore through the emptiness. His chest clinched deftly in rhythm with his new wings. Instinctively, he flicked and angled away from patches of blackburns, still soaring ahead with a trail of blossoming lights left in his wake. He knew Kurkov and Malfoy were being quickly left behind in his newfound, incredible speed. His official was trying to keep up in vain.

The great expanses of blackness, the endless wells of nothingness surrounded him, giving him a sort of intense, unknown pleasure. Stars blinked and disappeared within his sight; his great momentum, knife-like in the deepness, did not allow for casual gazing. He could feel the distant throb of the sun's rays.

Before he knew it, the moon loomed large and pock-marked in his line of vision. Jean held his wings straight, gliding to a slower speed. Spotting a huddled group of humans, he landed, or rather, he hovered inches from the surface. A Ministry official stared at him, standing by four other air bubbles anchored to the moon with a charm. Cordelia lay inside one, her face sweet and unaware as she breathed the slow breath of sleep. Ginny Weasley, Brie Brigham, and a Durmstrang boy reclined in the others, unconscious. His weightless body streamed toward Cordelia anxiously.

The official seemed to get a hold of himself and flicked his wand, moving the bubble containing the little girl toward Jean. He flowed beneath it and fluttered one wing. Suddenly, he realized his wand had been transfigured into that wing as Cordelia's bubble latched onto his back. Well, it was better than having to do without it.

Gently, Jean gained altitude again, trying not to jostle the girl. He gradually, but quickly, accelerated, once more arching through the soundless void. He passed his escort, who whirled and hurried to catch up again. Jean hummed in amusement. Well, it wasn't a _hum_ in the normal sense, but like an internal throb of amusement, musical in its silence. Jean thrilled again in his own speed and grace, drunk on the reflected radiation the moon emanated like a fine wine. He loved flying on a broom, but you couldn't compare these two experiences. Not because one was better than the other, but because they were such radically similar _and_ dissimilar joys.

He shot past Malfoy and Kurkov on his way back to earth, still competing franticly with each other and with several starving blackburns. He hummed again in pure mocking of their feeble effort. The exhilaration of his flight and almost assured victory thrummed in his chest and in his wings. The gorgeous blue planet rose to meet him and his inhuman senses could taste the noxious gases in the atmosphere. Regretfully, he pulled himself into Cordelia's bubble, letting the transfiguration melt from his body, making him heavy and cumbersome again.

The process hurt like hell, and he scrabbled against the smooth walls of the bubble. Finally, he was aware of the gravity calling to them. Jean picked up Cordelia, tucking her under his arm, and held his wand steady. They lunged downward, slicing through the atmosphere. The bubble trembled and squeezed as the gas molecules multiplied and the air grew denser. Jean put a firm grip on the sleeping girl, fortifying their craft with his will and his wand. The euphoria of being a bird-star gone, he found himself more concerned for this delicate little thing who anyone could very well mistake as his sister.

Gravity thrashed the green pocket of air, rabid with rage at this disobedience. It flung them downward, the seas becoming continents becoming islands becoming mountains becoming a glazed little castle. Jean grappled with the earth's pull, trying to slow their frenetic fall. Unexpectedly, he was flung with Cordelia still in his arms against the bubble's floor, an outside force slowing their descent and guiding them away from the dangerous spires and turrets of the castle.

They spiraled slowly into the Hogwarts Quidditch stadium, and all of a sudden the noise seemed to be turned on. Jean grinned at the screams from his fellow Beauxbatons students. The other cheers were polite. He didn't care; he'd won. To hell with the catcallers. Jean and Cordelia were landed gently on the turf.

"And we have our first return! Mister Jean Pole of Beauxbatons –"

Madam Pomfrey laid her clutches on them. She bullied them into a medi-tent, muttering darkly to herself. Jean laid Cordelia down gently on a cot and sat next her. Madam Pomfrey fluttered over the girl, coaxing a potion down her throat. She murmured and stirred. The nurse turned her gaze on Jean.

Lawrence entered the tent, his look a mixture of relief and anxiety. Jean smiled at him reassuringly and nodded at Cordelia, sitting up and yawning blearily.

"Are you two all right?"

"What?" the girl asked fuzzily.

"We're both fine," Jean told him in English, looking pointedly at Madam Pomfrey.

She continued to fuss. "I'll be the judge of that."

Lawrence sat on the other side of Cordelia, peering at her. "That was incredible, Jean. I'm really proud of you."

He grinned. "It _felt_ incredible. Did they give my score yet?"

"No, the judges are still conferring," Lawrence smiled at him softly, speaking in English and glancing over at the nurse.

The nurse snorted. "Fine. Go on."

Jean gave a one-armed hug to Cordelia. "Be back in a minute."

"'Kay." She appeared resigned to whatever was going on.

Jean stood outside the tent with Lawrence, gazing over the clean-cut grass to the judges table.

Crouch raised his wand and shot up gold ribbons twisting into a ten. Madame Maxime and Dumbledore awarded him another two tens. Karkaroff and Bagman gave him a seven and a nine, respectively.

"Forty-six, Jean, congratulations!" Lawrence clapped a hand to his shoulder.

Jean stretched, grinning. "Merlin, I feel great!"

He spotted Meri suddenly hurtling toward him the field entrance. She wrung his waist, laughing.

"You dog! Forty-six! That was so amazing!"

Izumi jogged after her. He gave Jean's arm a playful punch. "You deserved fifty!"

"Thanks. Who pulled me out of the free fall?"

"The Potters did," Lawrence told him softly.

"Well," he said, "I guess that _is_ their job."

Cordelia emerged from the tent, looking more alert. Jean pulled her to his side, mussing her thick black ringlets teasingly.

"Mmff," she mumbled into his arm. "What happened?"

"Bagman said they put you to sleep," Izumi said. "They took you to the moon and that was the second task. Jean had to get you down by himself."

She was awake now. "I went to the moon and I didn't even get to see it?"

"Cordelia, you would have been too frightened to make the journey awake," Lawrence chided, amused.

"I would to!" she insisted. "Wouldn't I, Jean?"

He rocked her around. "Of course."

She smiled and clutched at him. "See? Jean's nice."

"You coddler," Meri snickered. Cordelia fluttered her lashes and the older girl grinned.

The Potters waved them down from a velvet canopy. They nodded at each other politely and sat in plush chairs set around low tables. The two aurors stood on the other side, watching the sky. Ainsley Potter sat near them miserably, staring down at his sneakers.

Jean nodded toward him. "What happened with him?"

Meri shrugged. "He used the same bubble charm, around his head, and a heating charm, but they wouldn't let him go up. He did a few other things, but they still wouldn't let him go."

"Actually, I'm not sure I quite understood why they wouldn't," Lawrence remarked.

"Me neither," added Izumi.

Jean snorted. "Well, of course they wouldn't let him go."

Ainsley suddenly looked up at them, piqued. "Are you talking about me?" They were speaking in French. Incredible he could zoom in like that.

Jean met his gaze. "Well, yes. From what they're telling me, I'm surprised you didn't prepare yourself before the task."

"I _prepared_." The boy stood up, looking defensive.

"Ainsley," Lily Potter warned.

"No, I wanna know what I did wrong," he asserted. He looked at Jean expectantly, angrily.

"If you had gone up past the atmosphere without an entire bubble around you, and without adjusting the air pressure, your blood would have boiled inside your veins."

The boy looked confused. "Boiled? But it's freezing in space, right?"

"It's the _pressure_," Jean told him. "A boiling point is the temperature when the pressure of the liquid is equal to the pressure of the air around it. With nothing pushing down on it, the liquid then evaporates; it enters the air. A boiling point is lowered as pressure is lowered; in other words, the higher you go where there is less air or fewer air molecules. In space, there is no air pressure so your blood doesn't need to reach any temperature to reach its boiling point. Therefore, your blood boils in your veins and you die."

Ainsley turned a sickly puce and sat back down. His parents gave him funny looks.

Meri tutted. "You're lucky you're so intelligent, Jean. Imagine dying like that!" She shuddered.

Cordelia stared at him, bewildered.

"It's not that complex," he said, rankled. "It's basic science; muggles learn that when they're fourteen, thirteen. Wizards just give their students the answers without any of the explanations."

"I don't know if that's entirely true, Jean," Lawrence said. "What about magical theory? Plenty of people study that."

He looked like he would argue, but shook his head. "I don't want to get in a big discussion over that. What did the judges give Potter?"

Meri chuckled. "A grand total of five out of fifty points."

"Five? You'd think he would get a zero; he never even left the ground."

"Bagman gave him the five," Izumi noted. "Quite a few people didn't care for that." His gaze skittered over Meri.

"You're going to be in first place for sure," she said with aplomb.

"Jean's going to wi-in," Cordelia suddenly claimed in a sing-song voice.

He smiled at her, draping an arm on the back of her chair. They noticed a commotion being raised outside.

"And here come Mister Malfoy and Miss Kurkov! My, they're certainly having a go at each other!"

They stood up, standing at the canopy edge and staring up at the sky. Two blurry green lights split the burning darkness. The screens high above flickered, showing Malfoy and Kurkov struggling against gravity in their plummet. The jarred each other violently several times.

"What happened with those two? I didn't have a chance to watch them," Jean murmured.

"You left the ground first, and they followed," Meri informed him. "After you left the atmosphere, Kurkov was lagging and mowed down you and Malfoy. They started yelling at each other and you went ahead, of course. They pretty much were going at the same pace. Go up, yell, knock each other about. Rinse, repeat." She shrugged derisively.

The Potters were standing in the field, eyes and wands on the two bubbles now drifting down. Malfoy and Kurkov landed gently with darkly furious expressions. They glared at the sight of Jean. He looked back impassively and watched as Madam Pomfrey bustled them away. They ignored the individuals they'd rescued, leaving the Potters to pick up the Durmstrang boy and Brie Brigham from the grass.

The judges spoke among themselves. Ribbon whipped through the air, shimmering in the blackness. Kurkov had thirty-eight points while Malfoy had thirty-two. They both looked disgusted as they passed Jean on their way into the canopy.

Meri grumbled, "You'd think they'd have the same scores."

"Not with Karkaroff favoring his student," Izumi said. "I guess Dumbledore's too principled to give Malfoy a ten like he did."

She snorted.

"And that, with the scores from the first task, places our champions as follows," Bagman shouted up to the stands, "Jean Pole in first place, Draco Malfoy in second, Monika Kurkov in a close third, and Ainsley Potter in fourth. Now off to bed with you lot! Don't party too long!" He flicked his wand at his throat again.

The stands squirmed and shifted with excited students; the air was filled with their laughter and sharp, bawling yells. Lawrence, Cordelia, Meri, and Izumi left and Bagman entered, smiling at them and apparently unconcerned with three very sour looks.

"Well, well! Thrilling, that! I'm here to tell you that you'll all be informed about the third task later. It won't occur until the twenty-fourth of June, so you have plenty of time to prepare. Good luck!" He scurried out.

Malfoy whirled on the fourth champion. "Congratulations, Potter," he spat, "not only have you made a hilarious fool out of yourself, but you've also confirmed to me that you're the mindless idiot I've always suspected you were."

"Shut the hell up! You're one to talk, always depending on your daddy's money!" The boy glared back, fists clenched. "You _barely_ got into second place!"

Kurkov laughed and gave a not-so-playful shove to Potter's shoulder. "This coming from the one in _last place_!

"Don't touch me!" Potter gave the girl's hand a sharp slap.

"Lighten up," Malfoy told him, sneering and patting the boy's shoulder. "We're only fooling around." He gave his arm a good shake.

Potter reared back, getting ready to let a fist fly. By the two's expressions, that was exactly what they wanted. Jean shoved in, grabbing the younger boy's wrist before he could do more damage to himself than to the others.

"Knock it off," he announced, looking at each of them in turn. "You're all going to get yourself disqualified."

Potter jerked his hand away. "I don't need your help!"

Jean gave him a glib look. "I wasn't trying to. I'm just pointing out to Malfoy and Kurkov that they're the ones making fools out of themselves at the moment. If you hadn't noticed, you two, you're far ahead of Potter in points _and_ I suspect you're merely picking on him when you really have a problem with each other."

Malfoy and Kurkov glowered at him sullenly and then gave each other dirty looks. Malfoy stepped away disdainfully, his pale brow arched and his silver eyes filled with derisive hauteur.

"Piss off, Pole," he said succinctly and stalked away.

Kurkov merely scowled and left in a similar manner. Potter ran out without looking back and saying nothing.

Jean sighed. Bunch of idiots.

-

Ainsley flung another rock at the slick lake surface, licking his lips at the satisfying _crack!_ popping the air. He kicked at the light dusting of ice glazing the grass and felt the sharp prick of the cold night wind on his chapped and rent lips. He scooped up another jagged handful of rocks, chucking them with all of his might at the frozen water.

He was mad as hell. Mad at his own stupidity, mad at Malfoy and Kurkov getting all up in his face. Mad at Pole for being such an _ass_. He could take care of himself. He wasn't an _idiot_. He wasn't a _child_. Grasping a good-sized stone, he chucked it angrily into the lake.

"_Dammit!_" he yelled at the stars.

"Language, Ainsley."

He looked up. Oleander sat a few feet away on a log, her eyes darkly amused. She looked like a porcelain doll with her fur-trimmed dress and caplet, her hands stuck primly into a muffler, and her lips deep red against the whiteness of her face and hair.

"What do you want?" he snapped rudely.

She smoothed her immaculate skirts. "It's your own fault. You wouldn't let Stewart or I help you."

"'S in the rules," he muttered. "You can't accept help."

"You want to win, don't you?"

"I'm gonna do it by myself, dammit!" He give a fierce kick to the soggy mud and grass mixture at the lake edge. Ainsley gave her a filthy look.

Oleander stared back impassively. "You are too proud by far. Don't you think the other three are getting help?"

"I don't care if they are!" He gritted his teeth in frustration.

The girl said nothing for a long moment. "How is your mother, Ainsley?"

"Fat!" he shot. Instantly, the pit of his stomach dropped until it wallowed in sick guilt. He dropped his newest fistful of rocks in disgust. Flopping down on the log beside Oleander, he refused to look at her. "Shit... I didn't mean that." You didn't call a pregnant woman fat.

The girl's eyes glowed eerily in the dim shine sifting from the lake's surface. "It's all right to be concerned."

He hunched over sullenly. It wasn't fair. Mom and Dad were keeping something to themselves. He was starting to think they didn't trust him. It was stupid, but he was feeling left behind. He grew up sibling-less and now, all of a sudden, there was a new baby coming. Where he used to be the major object of attention for his parents, he was becoming a second thought. The baby and this... _other thing_ were, he admitted, making him jealous. And Ainsley could only get helplessly pissed at himself for feeling like that; he wasn't a freaking five-year-old, after all.

"Perhaps you should talk to them."

He rubbed his arms. It was suddenly very cold. "No." He didn't want to look like an idiot. His lungs clenched.

Oleander laid a tiny hand over one of his own hands. "What will be, will be, Ainsley."

"Yeah."

"You should go inside. McGonagall will yell at you if you're late for her class in the morning."

He nodded and stood up, giving the snow one last good kick. They climbed the hill to the castle together, silent in the quiet noises of the night.

-

"Really, tell me what's going on." Jean leaned toward his uncle over the battered wooden table, his tone and expression adamant. The Three Broomsticks bustled with shoppers coming in from the cold to gulp down warm butterbeers and give a cheery greeting to the jaunty proprietress, Madam Rosmerta. Lawrence had sent Cordelia home last night after the second task, but he stayed a day longer himself to spend time with his nephew.

Lawrence gazed back mildly. "Jean, I've told you. You needn't worry."

"Don't give me that."

That letter from months ago, mentioning the trouble with Cordelia's custody still worried him. He wanted to know what was happening; he wanted to know where she would live. And he could just feel his blood-tide rising at the thought of Madame Pole having a hand in the girl's life.

His uncle sighed and leaned back. "You're persistent. Okay, nothing much has happened since that owl I sent you. Honestly. I think it's because she's still in school, but I'm betting the moment she gets out, Mother will make her move."

"I don't like this," Jean told him frankly.

"It will be fine," Lawrence replied reassuringly. "I'm not letting Cordelia have the same childhood I did."

"If you _could_ become her legal guardian, are you sure you would want to? You've been putting up with me for four years now, and I'm really grateful to you for it, but would you want to spend another four or three raising another kid? You're only twenty-six, you know."

Lawrence laughed. "Jean, I've never had to 'put up' with you. You've been a lot more help to me than I suspect I've been to you. And Cordelia means a lot to me. Or course I'd want to take her in."

He grinned back wryly. "Listen to us. We sound so old."

The older man smiled. He suddenly paused, staring past Jean. He turned around and saw James and Lily Potter sitting down across the moderately crowded room. Lily looked up and smiled tentatively, giving them a small wave. Jean nodded back. Looking away, he bit his lip and drummed his fingers on the table.

Lawrence said nothing. His eyes were patiently concerned.

Jean was suddenly struck, not for the first time, how physically similar he was to François. The pale hair, the shapely nose and mouth, the hazel eyes – François's had always been faintly touched with melancholy, but Lawrence's were merely patient, constantly patient. They both held themselves and acted in a gentle, calm manner.

Jean glanced at the Potters again. They sat stiffly, as if their eyes were darting unconsciously to his back. Making a snap decision, he straightened and looked Lawrence square in the eye.

"I need to talk to them," he said, his tone and face resolute.

"Jean..."

"If I don't, they'll just keep hoping, and what's the point in that?"

The older man said nothing. But he stood when Jean stood and left their table when Jean left. The Potters looked up at them in surprise as they stood next to their table.

Jean managed a smile and asked politely in English, "May we sit with you?"

"Of course!" Lily said quickly, scooting her chair over.

They sat, Lawrence smiling a them and accepting James's hand.

"Good to see you again," the auror said tightly.

Lawrence nodded.

Lily placed a gaze on Jean. "Congratulations on yesterday. You were very impressive."

He shook his head. "I didn't come to talk about that. Not really, anyway."

"What is it, then?" she questioned softly.

"I know you both have said that you would leave alone the subject of the hereditary potion – " Jean began.

James looked like he wanted to interrupt, but Lily shook her head at him.

"But I've got the feeling you still haven't given up the notion."

"Jean, really, we meant it when we said we wouldn't try to press it on you," James said earnestly.

"We're letting it go," Lily added.

"Be honest," Jean told them. "Aren't you still hoping? I admit, what happened recently can make it look like there's still a possibility."

Lily look confused. "Are you saying you want to retake the test?"

"No, I'm saying it would be best if you gave up those hopes."

James sighed. "You're right, I think. We _are_ still holding on to the feeling that you're our son. But, Jean –"

"I don't think," Jean interrupted carefully, "that Harry Potter is still alive. I'm sorry, but I don't. And even if he were, supposing I _were_ him, I retook the hereditary test and it turned positive, what makes you think that will make any difference? What if I don't have the time to stick around?" He gazed at them straightforwardly.

The woman leaned back. "What do you mean?"

"I have plans. I've had them for a long time," Jean told them. "The moment the Triwizard is over, I'm leaving England. Of course, it all depends if I win." He paused, tugging at the lapels of his coat. He pressed his lips together and plunged ahead. "Which I will. I can't _not_ win."

They said nothing, waiting for him to continue. Lawrence leaned toward him a little.

"I'm planning on using that prize money to open an exhibition." He shifted little. "My father – François Pole – was an artist. A _great_ artist, despite what people said about him." Jean's brow wrinkled in faint irritation. "He never could sell his work well. Wizards stuck up their noses because he never charmed his paintings into movement. Muggles couldn't appreciate his work because they couldn't understand the latent... _magical_ element in his paintings." He looked thoroughly frustrated.

"Jean..."

He ignored Lawrence. "But I'm going to change that. I _know_ François's art is great. Anyone with enough sense to actually pay attention to it could tell. The exhibition will _prove_ it. And I can't allow anyone else to put it together. I have to finance it, organize it – everything – on my own."

James and Lily looked at him, their emotions mixed.

Lawrence sighed. "I've told him I would want nothing more than to pay for it, but he's stubborn about it. So many others have offered to help. The parents of his friends, Meri and Izumi, for example."

"Art exhibitions – do they cost a lot?" Lily inquired, her eyes dusky.

"There's the rent for the space, and I'll need a lot," Jean said. "He had so many paintings. There's the catering, advertisement, the decor – and it will have to be specific so to compliment his work. And it's not just that exhibition I need to be concerned about. Other people are depending on me. I'm planning on starting an agency, and I already have a few friends who are counting on me to be their agent. I have to jumpstart their careers; start their own exhibitions and get them publicized."

Lily sat back. "So you're saying even if you were our son, the whole 'everything-is-hunkey-dorey, happy family' bit isn't enough to tie you down."

"Yes. And I don't see the point in you keeping hopes that will only hurt."

Lily suddenly smiled. "Jean, you're very mature. You're certainly the most mature seventeen-year-old I've ever met. But you've still enough child left not to understand why we keep on hoping, why we _must_ hope." She leaned toward him, her full lips curved but her eyes apprehensive. "If you had a child, you would understand the incomparable bond and the plain and simple love that could never die a parent grows. That's all hope is, really – love."

Jean stared at her, unnerved. He felt unbalanced, swinging erratically off-course as if he were that bird-star once more and had swallowed too heartily of the thick honey sunrays, drunk and staggering in the great, freezing void. Words, crippled in their age, lurched through his skull. '_They're dead, François! They're dead, they're dead, they're dead!_' His teeth bit into the slick muscles of his cheeks. His body dripping away like so much fat and tissues, his indefinite self rose and sliced through his disarm.

Jean's eyes, fiercely green, shot to the Potters. "You're right. I don't know anything about that. But I know enough about love. François meant a lot to me. I don't think I could ever acknowledge anyone else as a parent."

Lily studied him with soft eyes for a while. She hesitated before saying, "Jean, is he dead?"

Lawrence's quiet gaze switched to his nephew. He was silent.

The void of disconcertion threatened, but Jean reeled himself back in. Dr. Swann had once told him something he'd never forgotten. You're only ashamed if you believe yourself to be guilty. No man can judge his brother; only you can pass judgement on yourself. Jean drew himself up.

"He is. For four years now. He –" A light pause. "He committed suicide. He always had a melancholy soul."

James's looked at him with a well of sympathy. "I'm sorry, Jean."

"Oh," Lily sighed and her eyes shivered in commiseration. She placed an elegantly shaped, callused hand over his. "You didn't have to tell us."

Jean shook his head. He didn't say anything for a while, looking off. "His art. I have to make it live forever. It's selfish of me, of course, to refuse to allow anyone to help with the exhibition. There are so many people who loved him, too. But I just can't. I have to do it myself. I won't accept failure." He glared at them suddenly, not angry, but passionate.

All at once, he felt the part of him that had slashed neatly through his indecision pulling away. He stood.

"I think we should go."

Lawrence kept his eyes on Jean, standing as well.

"Okay," Lily said quietly. "Thank you, Jean."

He looked at her. "For what?"

She smiled sadly. He didn't ask again.

He and Lawrence left the tavern, the bitter wind hitting them outside. They trekked toward the hill where the castle perched, silent.

Finally, the older man asked, "Jean, are you all right?"

He was speaking in French again, and the divide in language made the divide between people seem wide and gorging.

"Yeah," Jean answered. He shrugged, not caring to talk at the moment.

Lawrence understood the intrinsic request in the shrug. He didn't press the conversation further.

-

**A/N**: Well, yes. François commited suicide. I sincerely hope I'm not going to make a huge angst fest, so tell me if I do. The subject of suicide is more intricate than just _weepweepweep_. _Weep_. I'm going to try and conquer that hill.

I haven't got much to say, so I think I want to make a comment on Ainsley. He's brat, but he's also a kid who's getting frustrated and confused. He's at the awkward point right between ten and twenty (and, yes, that is a Five for Fighting reference). He's the type of person you want to punch at first, so you have to get to know him better.

Gyagh, I know, the second task was horrendous and unimaginative. So don't tell me that. I already know. But – I've always wondered if wizards go to space...


	12. Boldness

**We, In Faith**

By Elagabalus

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**: Boldness

* * *

"Maybe you _should_ give up."

Remus gazed at them, gray-skinned and looking rather worn. Yesterday had been a full moon, and he hadn't quite recovered yet. He fiddled with his food, too preoccupied with Lily and James's dilemma to eat. They – Lily, James, Remus, and Sirius – sat in the Defense against the Dark Arts teacher's office. The Potters had begun to discuss their meeting with Jean at the Three Broomsticks when they realized dinner was being served in the Great Hall. Unwilling to give up their privacy, they had ordered food up to Remus's office.

"I kind of agree with Remus," Sirius added, tearing a roll to pieces. "The kid seems to have a lot of baggage."

James shook his head impatiently. "If the world gave up on everyone who 'had a lot of baggage,' we'd be a sorry lot indeed."

"That's not what I meant," his best friend answered quickly. "I just think all of this –" he made vague gestures with his roll "– is making it worse for him."

"I don't know. You might be underestimating him. He seems very strong." Lily sat back from her empty plate. Even with everything going on, the little life inside her would not be refused. And in any case, James would have forcefully stuffed her to bursting if she hadn't eaten.

"Appearances can be deceiving," Remus commented over his glass.

"No, I really think he is." She mulled for a moment. "You didn't see him this afternoon. If I had been in his situation, I would never have been able to say the things he had."

Remus hesitated. "Look at it this way. _If_ he is Harry, and you find that out for sure, he'll just leave England as fast as he can. You might never see him again. You'll get your hearts broken."

She frowned, laying a quiet hand on her swelling belly. "He _is_ Harry. I wasn't sure before, but I am now. I just am. I feel it in my bones. And that's reason enough to keep trying." She turned to her husband.

The willful confidence and determination in her eyes infected him. James straightened up, adopting her expression.

"Lily's right. We spent sixteen years waiting. We can't let that go for nothing."

Remus and Sirius shared a look.

"If that's your decision," Remus said slowly, "I'll do my best to support you."

Sirius nodded rapidly, catching Lily and James's mood. "Padfoot is at your service." He made a salute.

James snorted, standing. "C'mon, Lily-flower. You need to go to bed. Let's go say goodbye to Ainsley."

She rolled her eyes but got up too. "Yes, Mother dearest."

"Don't you talk back to me, daughter darling," James answered, putting on a ridiculous falsetto voice.

Sirius and Remus snickered as they traipsed out the door. The pair felt faintly reminiscent as they trekked the Hogwarts halls, swinging their clasped hands childishly. Except instead of finding the best hiding place to catch a quick snog, their mission was to reclaim their eldest son missing for the greater part of their marriage. Funny how twenty years can change you.

Students were spilling from the Great Hall, still chattering animatedly about the second task. They spotted Ainsley shuffling out of the huge double doors with the younger Creevey brother at his side. Lily waved at her son and he came near, looking sullen.

"Hello Mister and Missus Potter," Dennis instantly piped. He smiled up at them, his neck craning.

"Hello Dennis," James grinned at him. Dennis amused him greatly.

Lily combed a gentle hand through Ainsley's hair, straightening it. He flinched away. She chuckled inwardly. He certainly was getting to that age.

"We're going back home now, Ainsley," Lily told him. "Don't let what happened yesterday get to you. It's only a tournament."

"That's right, Ains," added James. He clapped a hand on his son's shoulder. "I'm sure the next task will go better."

_But not too well_. Lily inwardly recoiled from the thought. To be honest, she wanted Jean to win. He had so much more to lose than Ainsley. And it would maybe knock some of that cockiness out of him to fail this once. But it made her feel guilty to be thinking like that.

"Right." Ainsley thrust his hands in his pockets, not looking at them.

Lily spread her arms, half-hoping. "A hug before we go?"

Incredulous, Ainsley stared at her. "_Here_?"

She dropped her arms. "All right, no lovey-doviness since you're too good for that now. At least Owl every now then."

"Sure." He walked off, shoulders hunched with Dennis scampering after him.

James rolled his eyes. "What will we ever do with him?"

Lily smiled. She shrugged as they descended the castle steps. Personally, she felt a little worried.

"James, when are we going to tell him?"

"About Jean?"

"Yes." He helped her up into one of the carriages pulled by Thestrals. They still disturbed her, no matter how many times she saw them.

James closed the carriage door and the somber horses moved forward. "When do you want to tell him?"

"Perhaps we should wait until we can convince Jean to retake the test. He can be there to watch. We'll do it as a family."

He put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "All right, Lily-flower."

-

"You did _what_?" Meri stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Exactly what I said." Jean sat back. He had put off telling them about his conversation with the Potters until the weekend when Meri had flounced into the boys' common room, as commandeering as ever.

"And you're all right with that?" Izumi asked, just as saucer-eyed.

He sighed. "I don't know. With them, I just don't know what the hell I'm doing. Everything else is on track, plan-perfect. But them –" He made a vague gesture.

"Then," Meri began, "then what are you planning now?"

"It sounded to me like they're not about to give up," commented Izumi.

"I wish they would. It would make things a lot easier for me." Jean placed his head on his fist. "But I've made my move. All I can do is wait, I suppose."

"I don't like it Jean," she complained. "I don't want you all tangled up with those people."

He smiled at her. "Don't worry about. Things will settle themselves. In the meantime, I think I should start making plans for – what do you call them, Meri? My artsy friends?"

Izumi snorted. "I rather like them."

"_Some_ of them are _decent_," Meri muttered petulantly.

"Maybe a week or so after I go home I'll have them all over at Lawrence's for a dinner party," Jean mused.

They both gave him truly stricken looks.

"And not invite us?" asked Izumi.

"You're going to make a whole dinner for _them_?" added Meri.

He glanced at them, amused. "I'll have you two over some other time. Appeased?"

Izumi smiled sheepishly, but Meri frowned.

"You're going to talk to _her_ soon, aren't you? Can't you put it off?"

"You know I can't." Jean admonished. "If I don't, she'll never come.'

"Just as well," she grumbled. "With a personality like _that_ –"

"Jean, there's some Hogwarts students wanting you. A right funny pair, too."

-

"You can't ignore me forever, you know."

Ginny ignored him.

Exhaling angrily, Ron glared at his little sister. "Dammit, Ginny. I didn't _do_ anything!"

She calmly took a dainty sip of pumpkin juice. "Hermione, did you see if it was snowing today?"

The Head Girl glanced up from her ever present book glued to her face. "No, it wasn't. Why?"

Ginny twirled an idle spoon through her porridge. "Oh, I was just thinking of piling snow all over my mother's youngest son's crap. Wet bed and books, you know."

"_Ginny_!" Ron groaned.

Hermione grimaced when he flopped his head on the table in despair, making the breakfast dishes rattle. She glanced at the unruffled younger girl pouring maple syrup on her porridge.

"Honestly, Ginny, this has been going on for more than a month. It's getting a little ridiculous."

She looked up, innocently freckled. "I'm sure I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

Aggrieved, Hermione sighed, "Do you even remember _why_ you're angry with him?"

"_Of course I do_," Ginny suddenly snapped, her mood swinging. "He made an absolute fool of me. And he knocked out –" She ranted, not at her brother but at her friend.

"And I said before," Ron interrupted, "that I barely touched him! It wasn't my fault! McGonagall said so, even!"

"And _I said_ I don't believe you!" shot back Ginny as she turned toward him.

Ron leapt up triumphantly. He wagged a finger in her face. "Ha! See? You talked to me! You couldn't keep it up forever."

Ginny flushed furiously as she glared at him.

Hermione sighed. "You idiot."

The table rattled when Ginny stood, storming off. Making a face, Ron grabbed her wrist before she could get far.

"C'mon, Gin," he pleaded. "Quit being like this. I was just –" His ears reddened. "I was just trying to, you know, make sure some prick didn't fool around with you."

"Jean's not a prick!" retorted Ginny. She turned a similar scarlet.

"How do you know?" Ron demanded. "According to that article –"

Hermione sniffed disdainfully. "_That article_ was written by Rita Skeeter." Her expression said that should have been explanation enough for her contempt.

"So?"

"_So_," she continued, glaring at him, "you shouldn't believe everything you read. Especially from a petty shrew who sinks her talons into any two-bit piece of gossip she can and skew it into some driveling excuse for journalism."

"Right."

Throwing her hands up in despair, Hermione gathered up her books. "Ginny, feel free to put as much snow down his pants as you like," she called over her shoulder as she left the table.

As Ron turned puce, Ginny rolled her eyes and pulled her arm out of his grasp. She went to follow the Head Girl, but her brother stopped her again.

"Would you quit that?" she said bitingly. "You're gonna break my arm."

He dropped her arm and muttered, "Sorry. But look, you can't keep being angry with me forever."

"Is that a challenge?" She folded her arms across her chest, eyeing him haughtily.

"Ginny, c'mon," pleaded Ron. "Look, I'll prove it you." He grabbed her hand, albeit more gently this time, and pulled her out of the Great Hall, weaving haphazardly among the blinking students who had slept in a little later. Ginny followed him bemusedly into the Entrance Hall. She only became a little alarmed when he led her out of the massive front door onto the grounds.

"Ron, where're we –"

He merely tugged her along. Slick warmth swam through the surprisingly vibrant grass, the day extraordinarily mild. Across the lawn, Ginny could see a few students milling around the lake, taking advantage of the Saturday and the good weather. Her brother was hauling her near the towering Beauxbatons carriages.

"Ron," she said nervously.

He tried to climb up the stairs, but she dug her heels into the turf.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, trying to pull out of his hold.

"Showing you that you're being angry at me for nothing." Giving her arm one great heave, he dragged the two of them up the little staircase.

Ginny knew very well she had been very childish lately by ignoring Ron. She, of course, doubted that he could knock out one of the Triwizard champions when he himself had been passed over by the Goblet of Fire. But, as much as she smiled and outwardly brushed it off, that Rita Skeeter article rankled her. Plus, this whole crush thing was really starting to get her down. It was ridiculous; she barely knew him. Even so, somehow all of her frustrations were being taken out on her brother.

"_Ron_ – "

He knocked on the gilded door. Ginny felt like dying already, watching in horror as the doorknob turned and the door swung inward inexorably. One of the Beauxbatons boys, puzzled, looked out at them expectantly.

Ron straightened up. "We wanna see Jean Pole."

The boy's brow furrowed, but he turned around and said something to the room behind him. Ginny glimpsed a great fireplace and many plush velvet armchairs. A movement beyond, and the other boy was replaced with Jean.

She flushed mightily, choosing to bore a mental hole through her brother's thick skull.

"Can I help you?" His accent still laid thickly over his polite voice.

Ginny hoped her mental hole was really making a dent in Ron's head. Not that there was much there to damage.

"Yeah, I want you to tell my sister I didn't do anything to you."

She groaned inwardly. Chancing an upward glance, she gave Jean a look saying, 'I'm Sorry My Brother Is Such An Idiot, And No I'm Not Sure He Even Means Well, So Feel Free To Kill Him Any Time Now.' One of those looks.

She merely ended up flinching nervously from his lovely ('lovely'? What the hell? _Why_ did she have to be such a sop?) green eyes.

"You're Ron Weasley, right? And Ginny Weasley."

He didn't make her name into a question. Did that mean something? Like he actually knew who she was? Well of course, Ginny harangued herself, she'd met him at least a couple of times now.

"That's right," Ron answered. "Don't you remember?"

An odd look crossed Jean's face. "You were talking about that time I... passed out? At the castle?"

"Yeah –"

"It wasn't your fault," commented an effeminate voice. A girl laid her head over Jean's shoulder and stared down at them. Ginny was annoyed to see it was Mariette Clehedault, Jean's 'childhood friend.'

"Why? Were you actually flattering yourself into thinking it _was_?" the pretty French girl smiled derisively.

Ron's neck instantly colored. Jean frowned and moved the girl out of their sight, making what sounded like a low reproval.

He turned to them, saying, "I'm sorry. Meri doesn't easily let go of what she perceives as slights." Someone snorted behind him. He ignored it. "But, you're right. It wasn't Ron's fault."

His unsettling, at least for her, gaze fell on Ginny.

She gave him a wobbly grin. "Right. I knew that, but my brother here was _so_ anxious –"

"_What_?!"

She turned Ron's grip on her arm against him, pulling him down the slim staircase. With a floppy expression still plastered clumsily across her face, Ginny said up to Jean, "Well, thanks, and bye then."

He watched her pathetic retreat, consternated.

"Ginny, what're you –"

She ignored him, dragging him up the steps to the Entrance Hall. In the doorway, she turned and gave his chest a good shove.

Glaring furiously, she drew herself up. "I hate you, Ronald Weasley!"

Ginny stomped away, leaving behind her bewildered brother.

-

She drew the woolen shawls closer, hearing the delicate scrape and rustle. Lacquered wood slipped between her fretting toes, shooting forward in their straight planks and dead against the floor. All too solid ghosts grew from the deadness; towering over her, they thrived by the slight of her hand. These works of art. She smiled slyly, secretly.

Her cellos, wooden bellies bloated, lay about like the tombstones for empty graves, the latent plucking and stirring she could invoke in them – their epitaphs. _He_ loved these things, of course. He said they would all know. Maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they were simply too stupid. Maybe it didn't matter –

"Imogene?"

She gazed across the room. The mirror lay on a table out of her reach. She shuffled closer. Gilded and silvery, the thing gazed up at her with a blackened surface.

His voice rose from it again. "Are you there, Imogene?"

She sank to her knees, leaning on the table leg with her arms resting on its surface. "I'm here."

"I'm glad." He paused. "How have you been?"

"Fine." She ran a finger along the mirror's molded ridges. "I saw you in the papers."

He groaned. She smiled, biting her lip. "Not just the bad ones."

"Well, ignore the bad ones. They're trash."

"I know."

Another pause. "Have you been working?"

"A little."

"On what?"

She laid her head between the crook of her elbow. "Things."

"Imogene, what things?" He sounded as patient as always.

She didn't answer. Her finger dipped and rose with the mirror's curves and valleys. Gold leaf flecked her finger.

"Imogene?"

She jerked her hand under her shawls, hunching over. She said, almost petulantly, "I'm writing a book."

He paused for a while. Her feet fidgeted.

"Okay. What sort of book?"

"A novel."

"About...?" He really did sound patient. She felt ill.

She didn't say anything for a long time.

He sighed. "All right. We'll talk about it later... Have you been eating?"

"Yes."

"Eating _well_?"

"Don't be oblique," she suddenly snapped.

"Imogene."

She hunched over further, until only her eyes lay above the table's surface.

The mirror again emitted his voice. "...I'm thinking about having a dinner party for everyone as soon as I come home, in June. If I pick you up, will you come?"

Her body teetered backward, and she sat on her haunches. She was silent for a while.

"Yes, Jean. I'll come."

"All right. I'll see you then."

"Yes."

She watched and felt the mirror's charm go inactive once again and the other consciousness left the air. Imogene sat back on the floor, huddled amid her voracious shawls swallowing her whole and dwarfed amid her flock of cellos, immense like dead birds.

-

"Take that back, Malfoy." Jean's voice sliced through the silence, quietly aggressive.

The Slytherin's lip drew back contemptuously. "Why should I?"

Jean gathered himself, glaring. Around them, the other students murmured and leaned forward in the circle they formed. They stood outside one of the classrooms set aside for the inter-school classes where they ought to be waiting to hear a lecture from Karkaroff. Instead, of course, Malfoy had attempted to instigate a fight with him in the most obnoxious manner.

It seems the older Hogwarts champion was choosing to ignore what little of an 'agreement' they'd had before. Just as well, Jean figured. It was only a matter of time until the Third Task would creep up on them and there could be no hindering affiliations. Even so, he would _not_ stand for being called a 'spineless sap with no talent' and other such inane things.

Meri and Jacques edged toward him through the milling crowd; the previous class still hadn't left quite yet. They and the other Beauxbatons students stood behind him, their faces showing they were just as tense as he was.

He turned slowly to Malfoy again. "Because you'll regret it very much if you don't."

"Is that so?" the blonde asked, smirking. "Who's going to make me regret it? _You_?"

"Well, after all he _is_ the champion in first place," drawled Jacques. "I forget, Malfoy, where were you placed again?"

The Beauxbatons students laughed quietly behind Jean. He gave a glib smile to Malfoy's slight reddening.

"So, still want to pick a fight?"

"You're so full of yourself, Pole," he spat. "I'm telling you now – there's no way in hell I'm letting you win this competition."

"He's right." Kurkov shoved her way into the circle, the other Durmstrang students surging after her. She flung her head back, glaring at them and utilizing her height. "_I_ will win." Her accent was still as dense as Jean's.

"Ooh," Jacques sighed, looking relieved. "Then you _did_ have more points than Malfoy and Jean. Really, you intelligent people shouldn't confuse poor simpletons like that."

The Beauxbatons laughter was louder this time. Kurkov looked very tempted to pummel the heckler's face in, a hand on her arm her only deterrent.

"You asswipes might have been lucky before, but that's ending now," Malfoy injected.

Jean arched his brow. "'Asswipe'? Oh, touché, Malfoy, touché."

The blonde clenched his teeth furiously. "You aren't good enough to lick the mud off my shoes. After all, you're just some pet project of one of the disgraced Pole sons –"

"Shut-up." Jean stepped forward, his entire attitude changed. He dropped the nonchalant, mocking expression and adopted a quiet fury. Someone suddenly had restraining hands on his arms. So Malfoy _did_ know more about him than he let on, and of course, like the ass he was, he decided to distort that information into a petty insult.

"Yes, shut-up, Malfoy," Kurkov leered. "You aren't much better, as far as I'm concerned."

The Slytherin swung toward her.

"Hey!" They all paused and looked at Orlando, surprised. Jean had to twist his neck; Orlando had been the one to hold him back. "Why don't you all settle this maturely? Some way other than stupid name-calling?" His customary indifferent expression had transformed into annoyance.

Malfoy suddenly grinned. "Why not some friendly little games of Quidditch?" What Jean assumed to be part of the Slytherin House team cracked their knuckles and flexed their fingers in ways that promised anything but a 'friendly' game.

"Or better yet," Kurkov added, looking smug, "– a battle royale."

Jean relaxed and Orlando let go of him. He was smiling thinly now. "Name the place and time."

"Not the stadium," Malfoy said. "We'll be caught." He grinned suddenly. "The Forbidden Forest. Two weeks from now."

Kurkov looked at him suspiciously. "_Where_ in the forest?"

Giving her a sly smile, he answered, "I've got a map of the grounds. There's a huge clearing not too far from the edge. Why, Kurkov, are you scared?"

She didn't seem in a hurry to dignify that with a reply.

"I have a snitch, but we need the other balls. And what about goals?" Jean asked.

"How do we know you won't tamper with the snitch?" Kurkov demanded.

"It's one of the new models; the uncharmable ones."

She grumbled, "We'll see."

"We can just mess with a couple of trees for goals," said Malfoy. "For the balls I'll tell Hooch the Slytherin team wants to keep from getting rusty – and to learn a few last tricks from their captain before he graduates." He said this last bit very pointedly.

Jean didn't fall for the bait. "If it's a battle royale, we'll need more than just two bludgers."

"Three bludgers. No problem." The blonde glanced amusedly at two hulking, morose-looking youths. Their arms were like huge sledgehammers; they must be the Slytherin beaters.

Kurkov glared. "And what about putting a team together? _We_ only brought twelve people each. You still have all of your team."

"Well, Kurkov," Jean said dryly, "if they were good enough to be considered for the Triwizard, surely they'd have enough brains not to fail utterly at a little bit of Quidditch."

She turned a furious white.

Jacques slung an arm over Jean's shoulder, grinning at the other champions. "But it is unfortunate. You see, Malfoy, you're not the only one with a team captain in your midst. However, _we_ are the only ones with the individual who was the youngest player in a century." The Beauxbatons students murmured in amusement. "Who hasn't lost a House cup in six years, and who can fucking _fly_." Laughter burst behind Jean.

Malfoy's lip curled. "We'll see, we'll see when –"

"Hey!" Ron Weasley squeezed his way to the front of the small crowd. He glowered at them. "What about Potter? The Gryffindor team –"

Kurkov and Malfoy burst into laughter along with a majority of the other students.

"I think it's bad enough that I have to beat him during the regular season and the Tournament," the Slytherin gasped. "He'd have to be a masochist to want to play against all three of us at once."

"What's this? What are you all doing?" Karkaroff had finally appeared, looking stern. "Well? Get on those of you who aren't in my class! And those who are, get in!" He seemed unabashed at his own dawdling.

"Two weeks!" Kurkov shot at Jean and Malfoy. They nodded and entered the classroom, passing each other stiffly.

-

"Hurry up, Neville!" Ginny turned back to him impatiently. "We'll lose them!"

The boy looked up at her blandly. "I'm coming, I'm coming."

Ron and Ainsley waited with her for Neville among the densely packed trees. Above birds squawked into the thin, sharp air harsh with the scent of pine and leaf-rot. Blurry lights and many tramping feet were trekking deeper into the forest, away from the castle and them. Laughter rolled back from the larger group.

Of course when Ron had told her about the Quidditch match the other champions had contrived, Ginny, momentarily forgetting of her annoyance with her brother, had immediately wanted to follow them and watch. Ron had agreed if only to see Malfoy get his face smashed with a bludger. He wanted to do more than just watch, and tried to coerce Ainsley into getting the Gryffindor team together to crash their little tea party, but the younger boy had been strangely apathetic. They ended up settling for merely being spectators. Then, oddly enough, Neville Longbottom had asked to come with them. They agreed, but Ginny was starting to regret that decision as they hurried to keep pace with the large group ahead and the round-faced boy still lagged behind somewhat.

She glanced over at her brother. "Ron, you _didn't_ tell Hermione, right?"

"Of course not!" He said, insulted. "I'm not that stupid!"

The Head Girl would have undoubtedly ratted on them; it was pure luck she had hurried ahead to her last class of the day instead of lagging like the rest of the students apparently had.

Ainsley sighed loudly as they clambered over some particularly large tree roots. He wouldn't have even come if Ginny hadn't convinced him.

"It'll be fun, Ainsley," she said cheerfully. "Just wait and see."

"Uh-huh." He wouldn't look at her.

She frowned. Had she done something to make him angry? She was usually on very good terms with the younger boy, but lately he seemed to be intentionally avoiding her.

"Ainsley, why –"

"Shhh," Ron shushed.

The larger group had halted, their wands put out. She could see moonlight slipping through the trees ahead. Ron jerked his head to the side, indicating they should circle around. Creeping carefully about the edges of the other students, they slinked to a spot where they could clearly see the front of the group spilling out onto a large clearing awash with moon and star-light.

Jean, Malfoy, and Kurkov were conferring further out on the wild grass. The broke apart, turning away from each other toward the trees surrounding the vaguely round clearing. They lifted their wands to a point out on the smooth ground's edge. Neville jumped at the sudden crack and rumble behind him, quickly dodging a tree as it shuffled toward Kurkov's beckoning wand.

The forest continued to bellow with the magic's effect, the trees screeching with the labor. When the air grew still once more, nine tall and extremely skinny trees, dead and green-less, ranged around the meadow's edge. Jean turned to Malfoy and made a gesture to the trees he had gathered; anyone could tell they were far too close according to regulation. The Slytherin scowled but moved them further apart.

Each turned again to the trees, lifted their wands and with bitter snappings rid the lifeless things of their old branches. Ginny flinched as splinters sprayed over them. The limbs were lifted into the air again, twisting and braiding into hoops which were carefully locked onto the makeshift poles. Again, Jean made a comment to Malfoy; this time his loops were barely large enough to get a head through, let alone a quaffle. He grudgingly fixed his obvious stab at cheating.

"Stupid Slytherin prick," Ron muttered, squinting across the field. "We coulda beat him in no time, Potter."

Ainsley grunted noncommittally.

Neville sidled closer to the grass, standing beside Ginny and gazing at the three other champions as they approached the waiting group not far from where they stood.

-

Jean held out a hand for his broom and one of his chasers instantly slipped it into his grip. He turned to Malfoy and Kurkov.

"No wands, remember?"

Kurkov brusquely nodded and threw hers to a niche in the ground between two thin tree roots. Jean tossed his to the same spot and indicated for the rest of the team to do the same. Malfoy and the other Slytherins resentfully did the same.

Rubbing the handle of his broom, Jean ran a quick eye over the six he'd chosen to play. Three of the girls, all of them close friends and sprightly, as chasers; they could communicate well and were clever, both attributes enough to make up for their so-so flying. He felt very lucky that at least Antoine Lacroix, the keeper of another house at Beauxbatons, had been accepted as a potential Triwizard champion _and_ that Jean had finally managed to convince him to play in this... _casual_ match. It had been hard for Antoine to lose his habitual house pride, but thankfully he had; he was talented. And Jean himself would be seeker. He always did have the classic builder for the position – skinny and light, very fast.

However, Jean had the creeping sensation he'd sorely regret his choice for beaters – Jacques and Orlando. Of course, at surface it would seem odd to choose the indolent Orlando for a position that required fierce energy, but Jean had plied him with a few firewhiskeys a little under half an hour ago. Not enough that he couldn't fly straight, but enough that the enraged-drunk in him could be stoked. He had to admit when Orlando was in the right mood, he could be pretty savage, and not just in the mindless caveman way – perfect for a beater.

Jacques – well, Jean had only chosen him because there was no other option. Izumi flew like a cow with two legs and no head. In addition, Pierce Laramie didn't have a single shred of competitiveness in him while girls just didn't have the physical strength required for whacking the murderous black ball across a great distance. Jean had given Jacques a stern warning to not fool around in the air where he couldn't always keep an eye on him, but knowing his personality, he doubted it had sunk in very far.

"We're doomed, aren't we?" he commented in an undertone to Antoine.

The tawny boy glanced at him. "If we really must kill ourselves in shame, I'm sure they have plenty of poor saps in hell a lot worse off than us. We might end up feeling better about ourselves." He had a leisurely smile and a dry wit.

Jean shook his head and turned to Malfoy and Kurkov, switching to English. "Well? Shouldn't we get the rules straight?"

Malfoy grinned. "What rules? I say everything goes."

"What about scoring?"

"As long as it's not your own goal, it's still ten points. Still one-fifty for the snitch. And then, everything goes."

"Outside of magic," Kurkov interjected.

"Outside of magic," conceded the Slytherin.

Jean looked at his team, all relatively light and with enough sense to grasp tactics, and at Kurkov's – all bulky youths who looked like they would slam you into the ground as soon as look at you. They would undoubtedly be very inexperienced... had Kurkov said if she had been on a Quidditch team? He couldn't recall. Malfoy's team had the similar look as hers, but they were the regular players he worked with. Well, Jean highly disapproved of anyone who valued brawn over intellect and speed in the game, and planned on teaching them that lesson the hard way.

"Fine," he said. "But we'll give as good as we get." The team chuckled in assent.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and waved his team toward the center of the field.

Jean's eye caught on the darkness within the trees out of reach of the moon's bright bath. "Wait. There's nothing dangerous in this forest, is there?"

Turning back, Malfoy sniggered, "Why? Scared?"

He stared back calmly. "If something comes after us, we might have to raise hell. And if we have to raise hell, we might be caught."

The blonde shrugged. "Nothing this close to the school grounds. Now, c'mon. Are we going to play or not?"

Jean motioned his team forward. "Watch out for the bludgers and beaters," he muttered. "Especially you three." He looked at the chasers.

"_I'll_ take care of them," Orlando said, rolling his neck and grinning broadly.

"That's the spirit!" Jacques laughed.

One of the girls rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, Jean. We heard it all the first time. And the second."

"And the hundredth."

"Stop giggling! I'm serious. I don't want to have to scrape anyone off the grass with a spatula."

"It'll be fine," Antoine said. "What's the worst that can happen?"

Jean chose not to answer that.

A pair of Slytherins set a large and small trunk onto the grass and Antoine separated from them, flying easily to their goals as the others stood with their back to him and their legs straddled over their brooms. The Slytherin and Durmstrang students took similar stances. Jean, Malfoy, and Kurkov argued for a moment amongst themselves over who would throw the quaffle into the air and release the bludgers and the snitch. They finally called over Pierce, the most guileless individual you ever saw.

As Pierce bent over the larger trunk, Malfoy glanced at Jean, roving his sight along his team, and suddenly jerked his eyes back.

"Pole, is that a _Firebolt_?"

Jean gave him a mild look. "Yes it is. Something wrong with that?"

He skewed his features disdainfully. "It's a flashy model. The price tag's misleading."

"If you say so."

Pierce held up the gleaming quaffle and instantly the players stilled, the chasers hunched over their brooms, their grips tight. The boy's hand, curved under the red belly of the ball, descended slowly and shot up, releasing the quaffle into the air. They all vaulted into the beckoning winds, jostling and scuffling. The chasers crashed into one another and swiped at the quaffle. They leapt away, and the sky was thick with the frenzy of the flyers.

Pierce released the bludgers and the snitch as Jean rose above the treetops and watched one of Kurkov's chasers rush about with the quaffle in hand. He was brawny enough to grab the ball first, but definitely not lithe enough to dodge a merciless black blur sent his way, assuredly with much love, by a Slytherin beater. A waiting chaser caught the falling quaffle and muscled his way to the Beauxbatons goal. Antoine easily blocked his clumsy throw, made even clumsier by a sharp whack from a bludger. Jacques waved at the furious Slytherin cheerfully.

One of the Beauxbatons girls tucked the quaffle under her arm and shot down the clearing, the other two keeping pace in a tight, neat formation. Tossing the ball amongst themselves and weaving crazily through the opposing teams, they bore down on the Durmstrang keeper. One girl feinted, appearing to have the quaffle, while another girl slung the actual ball through an unguarded goal. The five grounded Beauxbatons students screamed loud enough to fill an entire stadium.

Smiling a little, Jean climbed higher and removed his eyes from the players to watch for the snitch. He noticed Kurkov trailing him not far away. She wasn't sure of her abilities, then, if she was waiting for him to spot the snitch. He adjusted the grip on his broom; every team at Beauxbatons knew very well that _that_ tactic would never work with Jean.

"Coming through!" He saw Malfoy lancing toward his side, too fast to turn away.

Instantly, Jean swung under his broom, the blonde's broom bristles scratching his knuckles. Kurkov, hovering near, barely avoided him, having to tumble into the snagging branches of a treetop. She yelled obscenities at Malfoy, curled over with uproarious laughter. Jean pivoted back upright. His broom hadn't budged a centimeter in the air. He ignored the other two and kept his eyes on the ground below for the fluttering twinkle of gold.

Malfoy was shooting his mouth off now, provoking Kurkov. She kept swinging erratically at him, but he was too quick for her, darting about easily. One of her sudden charges made Jean drop a few feet to avoid her. Malfoy really got a kick out of this.

"I'll give you one thing, though, Kurkov," he gasped, clutching the laugh stitch in his side. "You certainly have more balls than Pole here."

Jean rolled his eyes and circled away from them. They followed, Malfoy gleefully and Kurkov sullenly.

Apparently still speaking to the girl but his eyes on him, he continued, "_You_ at least will throw a punch or two if you feel like it. But he goes all a-quiver if he thinks he has to get his hands dirty."

Jean gripped his broom.

"Yeah, he might as well – oh, shit!"

This last comment resulted from the fact that Jean, his body vertical, had suddenly hurtled toward the violent mass of players below. Malfoy hurriedly whipped after him, Kurkov following. Their teammates scattering out of their way, the three sped as one against the lashing night wind, eyes on the unbridled grass. Jean slowed slightly, letting the other two gain a bit of distance, but still refused to pull out of the dive until the ground threatened to give him a free nose-job. His knees and broom combed through the tall grasses, with, of course, no snitch in sight. Nasty thumps and loud cursing rose behind him.

Kurkov was lolling awkwardly in the grass, one whole side of her face already warning of an ugly bruise. Malfoy looked like he had actually managed to pull out of the dive, but had forgotten to keep his knees tucked. He was bent strangely to one side of his broom, clutching at an ankle and pulling a strange face.

Jean rose higher. "Who was it that didn't have any balls, Malfoy?"

The Slytherin gave him a filthy look, settling back on his broom and rising.

"Watch it, Jean!"

He ducked, avoiding a murderous bludger hurtling where his head had been. Orlando chased after it, sending it back to sender (one of the troll-like Slytherin beaters). He arched around, his bat still held out, and Malfoy ducked to avoid receiving a concussion.

"You damn idiot –" he spat.

"Everything goes!" Orlando grinned maniacally.

Jean was already several branches above them, speeding to regain his place above the action. His team had the quaffle, but the girls, already looking battered, dropped the ball to avoid two of the bludgers and a charging Slytherin. Their attacker took possession of the quaffle, quickly scoring on the Durmstrang goal. The game was turning bloody, literally. He couldn't spot a single player on any team that didn't have at least some form of injury. The beaters were using their bats as well as the bludgers as weapons and every flyer was rushing suddenly at someone with their brooms, sometimes avoided, sometimes not.

Which wasn't necessarily a good thing for the rusher. He winced as Jacques's eye met an elbow when he attempted to jar a Durmstrang chaser from her broom. Even so, she dropped the quaffle, barely seconds in her hands, to the clutching fingers of a Beauxbatons chaser. She managed to get through the haze of hostile flyers, aiming and flinging the ball with all her worth at the Slytherin goal. But a beater unexpectedly darted in and swung at the quaffle, knocking it back at the chaser. Blood spurted from her nose and down her robes.

Malfoy and Kurkov had risen to his height. They gave him disgusted looks. He reciprocated with an equally icy one. Jean watched the battle below his swinging feet. No sign of gold. He sincerely hoped the snitch would appear soon.

-

I could hear them behind me. Not that they were trying to keep their noises a secret, but still. It was rather obvious. I shouldn't have heard anything there, of course; I wasn't supposed to be there anymore. I was supposed to be spying on Lily Potter. But this was something _he_ might very well die in, and I have a right just as any to watch him die.

Fresco stepped up beside me, all slow and gingerly. "Getting rather violent, aren't they?" He watched a girl getting a bloody nose.

Minh was behind me.

"I'm not, I'm not going to help you." I didn't look at either of them. My eyes were higher, in the dizzying darkness where he circled like a doomed spirit.

"Why not?"

"You didn't, you didn't help me all those years ago," I said, "so why, why I should I help you now?"

"You would've done the same thing," Fresco replied. He was silent for a while, watching the game turned miniature war. "But we're doing better, and we've always been in the same basket. So shouldn't we look out for each other now? You don't have to be chained to that –"

"Don't, do not put me in the same category as you two. You're monsters. Monsters." My voice was very dead.

A low chuckle behind me. "Yeah? And what does that make you?"

There was a slap of black on my chest that I wished knives would pour into. A scream distracted me. He had made another magnificent, feinting dive. Only this time the boy had peeled off mid-dive, realizing he'd been duped once more. The girl had hit the ground again.

I rose from my crouch, walking away silently.

"Hey!" Fresco whispered after me. "What are you going to do?"

"Stopping them."

I prowled around the edges of the spectators, dense among the quiet trees. I wanted someone off to the side and alone. I found a boy near a much smaller group of students than the large throng a little way off. I creeped around behind him, mindful of twigs and dry leaves. I held my wand up.

"_Imperio_."

-

Ginny clamped her hands to her mouth, hoping fervently that no one from the other group would notice. She looked at Ron and Ainsley; _they_ hadn't even blinked at her scream. But Merlin, Jean doing that horrible dive was enough to make anyone's hair stand on end. She turned back to the match. She wouldn't take a billion galleons to trade places with any one of those players.

She'd seen at least a dozen bloody noses, broken arms or legs, probably even some broken ribs, bruises galore, black-eyes, and more wind being knocked out of people than she could count. Even Jean, who was most likely the best flyer she'd seen, hadn't been quick enough to dodge a random bludger and now was bent strangely over his broom handle, holding his side every now and then.

Idiots. The whole lot of them were idiots. Everything goes they say, and of course they don't think about when they have to go crawling to an adult to get their wounds mended. And how would they explain the sudden multitude of messy injuries? Ha! She'd like to hear _that_ one.

Across the clearing was the makeshift scoreboard, a mass of fireflies (although, how they got fireflies in the middle of March was beyond her) that formed and shifted according to each team's points. It read: Slytherin 100, Durmstrang 80, Beauxbatons 100.

The Slytherin (and there were _only_ Slytherins, even though half of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw supported Malfoy, Merlin knows why) and Durmstrang chasers pretty much played in the same manner, but Slytherin was faster simply because of their superior brooms which everyone knew Malfoy's father had donated just to get his son onto the team. On the other hand, the Beauxbatons chasers played like the Gryffindor ones – well, how they _tried_ to play, anyway.

The only reason the Slytherin team always won the House cup was simply because, she admitted, Malfoy invariably caught the snitch. But with the way Jean flew, she had the feeling the blonde prig would soon be knocked down a peg or two.

A loud rustling at her side, and she watched in astonishment as Neville walked jerkily out into the open.

"_Neville_," Ron hissed. "What're you doing?"

The boy walked quickly and oddly further out into the clearing, a smashing bludger barely avoiding him.

"Neville!"

He began jumping up and down, whirling his arms to get the furiously fast players' attentions.

"They're coming! They're coming! They're coming!" yelled Neville, still flailing.

The exhausted teams eventually slowed down, for their own energy supplies or for Neville's sake she couldn't tell, and gazed down at the round-faced boy in bemusement or amusement, depending who they were. The sniggering Slytherins nudged each other.

"Who's coming, Nevy?" asked Millicent Bulstrode all too sweetly.

He gasped. "I heard voices! In the forest! I think 's the professors or –"

"You sure the voices weren't in your head, Nevy?" Millicent inquired to the intense amusement of her teammates. They laughed loudly, a little touched with fatigued hysteria.

"Be quiet!" snapped Jean, having descended from the treetops.

They all listened. Ginny's eyes widened. There _were_ snappings and footfalls a way off, and she could hear voices, even one that definitely sounded like Hagrid.

The Beauxbatons team swooped to the ground, and the others instantly followed. The three champions waved away the fireflies and sent their tree-goals rumbling back where they came from. The Slytherins hastily locked the bludgers back into the trunks with much shoving and struggling. They threw the quaffle in and stumbled off.

Many of the players couldn't walk by themselves and ended up having to be supported or even hastily slung onto a stretcher to save time. They all dispersed, silently acknowledging a greater cause – not to get caught.

Ron and Ginny hissed at Neville to get moving, but he simply stood in the clearing with his back to them. Finally, they had to dart out and drag him back in the trees. They didn't quite dare to light their own wands, and didn't want to stumble around the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night with no way to see. They followed the other, and now very spread out, group. Neville practically dragged his feet the whole way, looking dazed and mumbling every now and then.

-

"Very nice," Fresco commented. "That sound charm, I mean."

I felt rather annoyed. I had gone a quarter around the clearing's edge to watch their retreat. And still those two followed me. I saw something in the grass out in the open.

"Don't approve of the Imperius, though. Never have."

I waited a minute, making sure all the students were gone. Darting out, I scoop up the thing. It fluttered sadly in my black glove, gold and white and rather lovely. I glanced at Fresco and Minh. They just watched me and leaned against two trees. I walked away, refusing to acknowledge them.

-

Jean refused to open his eyes. If he opened his eyes, that would mean he would have to wake up. And if he had to wake up, that meant he would have to get out of bed. And if he did _that_, his ribs would begin hurting like hell again.

He sighed, gingerly covering his face with his palms. He removed his hands, his eyes open, and glowered at the ceiling. Carefully, Jean peeled away his covers and sat up. He blinked. Frowning, he bent over, got out of bed, touched his toes. No pain. He lifted his shirt, revealing unblemished skin. Not even a bruise.

But he was _positive_ that a bludger had smacked him in the ribs last night, leaving an enormous bruise if not broken bones behind. Meri and Izumi would attest to it. They had had to help him blunder awkwardly out of the forest. Something glinted in the corner of his eye.

On his pillow, the one he hadn't slept on, was his snitch. He leaned over and picked it up. Its wings twittered in response. It looked undamaged, the delicate wings intact and the gold still luminous. That had been the only thing Jean had regretted last night – leaving behind his snitch. Had he caught it without realizing it?

Still frowning, he walked over to his trunk. Unlocking it, he put the snitch back in its usual spot. He sat back for a moment, staring at his possessions. Suddenly, he bent back over the trunk and ran his hands searchingly through its contents. It wasn't there. He stood up and strode to his wardrobe, its doors mirrored. Plunging his hands inside the pockets of all of his robes, Jean came out empty-handed. He closed the wardrobe doors and stood staring at his reflection.

That's right. When he'd come back from the hereditary test, his clue potion for the second task had been missing.

-

**A/N:** If you hadn't noticed (and I hope you have), I've changed my penname from snafuedKing (or King) to Elagabalus. I felt like a change, is all. And, if you're curious, Elagabalus was this really fascinating Roman emperor. He's worth a google.

If you didn't understand the first person bits, they're from Führer's point of view. That's the only time I'll use first person.

Gyaagh, this chapter is super long. Seems like it took forever to write. I didn't touch much on Jean's past or his relationship now with James and Lily because I'm planning to do so quite a bit in the next chapter.


	13. Exist

**We, In Faith**

By Elagabalus

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**: Exist

* * *

**A/N:** A forewarning – this chapter is different from the others in that it pertains only to the past.

* * *

Lawrence hurtled through the Floo system, the turbulent journey made all the worse by the jangling luggage he had to wrestle with. But it was well worth a few bumped knees if François and Harry had finally made amends. He burst through the fireplace's green flame-licked maw, clearing his throat and dusting himself off. 

The apartment was silent. He frowned, wondering if two hours hadn't been enough for their inevitable conversation to resolve itself.

"François? Harry?"

He set his nephew's things down. Books and socks littered the living-room floor, and an uneasy film of dust settled over the furniture. Water-rings whorled across the scarred coffee table. Untouched glasses of water stood stale and solemn on the floor and on the tables. Lawrence frowned.

"François? Are you here? Harry?"

He opened a door quietly. The air lay dead in the bedroom. The bed's coverlet was left knotted and mangled with stray bits of clothing covering it like barnacles. Lawrence swung the door a little wider. It jittered in his hands and a crunching sound popped the silent air. He looked behind the door, finding the mirror that hung there shattered and fragments of its glinting surface scattered on the floor.

His innards felt clumpy and apprehensive. "Hello?"

Lawrence turned to the closed bathroom door. He knocked and said, "François?" A strange, harsh scent tangled within his mouth. The moment stretched with no answer to preclude it. Hesitating, he laid his face against the door to listen. Nothing. He leaned back and pulled the door open.

"Oh God."

He stumbled backwards, the bed slamming against the back of his legs. His body jolted down onto the bed and his forearm swung over his mouth. He noticed, in the distraction of horror, his face contorting. His muscles hardened and stretched to breaking so that he couldn't move for several minutes.

His brother lay in the bath, fully-clothed. He was drenched in more than water and a single arm hung limply over the side, shedding red onto the white tiles and bathmats. François's face was remote and expressionless, his hair curling gently in the dyed water.

Lawrence fought to regain his feet, looking away from the bathroom with the same tenacity that had caused him to stare. The fierce metal of the blood-scent mixing with the dry sterility of the dust made the bile in his throat heave. He laid a hand over his mouth and nose, quietly closing the bathroom door. He stood there for a long time. Looking down, he noticed his hand shaking. He backed away from the closed door.

Suddenly, he shot out of the bedroom, into the living-room, and yanked open another door. He called down the shallow hallway, "Harry?" His voice was hoarse. Lawrence scanned the second bedroom, finding it empty. He pushed open the opposite room.

The boy knelt there on the floor, the canvas above seeming massive in comparison. His back was turned to Lawrence, but he could already see the red seeped into the skin of his hands and into the white of his clothes. Black turned blacker. François's canvases lined the walls and cavorted in their stands; they turned their wide faces to them unkindly.

"Harry?" Lawrence asked, stepping across the threshold. He swallowed as he stared at the boy's back. He glanced at the canvas.

It was startling. The muted shades battling quietly with lurid shadows, the gentle yet violent expression, the splayed wings, the helpless child-thing. Harry did not answer him, his head tilted towards the canvas. Lawrence edged closer and could feel the ever higher pitch of the cold seeping into himself. Harry's hands clenched all of a sudden. His neck arched and twisted sluggishly, and his bleached face, like the moon, turned to his uncle and found no sun to wash him. Red smudgy fingerprints streaked on his cheeks and temples.

"Lawrence?" the boy asked. The tone and expression sunken over him would be likened to that of a doe's stupid bleating eyes over her dead fawn, her plaintive bawling grunts as she wobbles around the corpse for several days. Harry looked at the painting again. "It's very good. Maybe the best yet. His last," he said prosaically. The boy began trembling, languidly at first and then steadily more brutally.

Lawrence dropped to the ground beside him. He reached out and roughly pulled Harry to him, enveloping the lean, agitated body.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Oh, God," he mumbled croakily, trying to quell Harry's shivering with sheer force. It was for both of them.

They stayed like that for a while. But then Lawrence stood silently and helped Harry up. The boy swayed a little, his gaze unfocused. As the older man gently pushed him out into the hallway, his eyes lingered on that painting and he closed the door to the studio. In the living-room, Lawrence made Harry sit down on the sofa. He nervously looked around for the Floo pot. Pulling it from mantle, he stoked the smoldering embers within the fireplace and tossed a pinch of the green powder in. After making the call, he pulled out his head, dusted himself off, and looked back at Harry still sitting stiffly in the same position.

His glance snagged on the open bedroom door. He swallowed convulsively. Lawrence made himself focus on Harry. He sat beside him. He didn't respond, so he made the boy look at him.

"Harry, the Ministry people and the Healers will be here soon," he said softly. "What happened?"

His nephew's stare went straight through him.

"Harry?"

He could feel the blood thudding in his ears and the coldness of the thin body under his hands. His built-up fear staggered clumsily within him. "Harry?"

The boy remained silent. His white face was starting to tinge with bruise-colors – blue frosting his lips and purple deepening under his eyes. Within Lawrence's mind, the image of his brother in the bathtub slyly caught him unawares.

"Harry? Snap out of it!" Lawrence shook him a little, trying to elicit a response.

Harry's gaze shifted with the jarring. He blinked and murmured confusedly, "...What?"

All of a sudden, the low fire flared high and three wizards and a witch stepped out of the emerald flames. Lawrence stood, one hand still on Harry's shoulder. He gestured to the open bedroom door.

"The bathroom," he told them simply.

Two of the wizards nodded solemnly and entered the room. The witch, dressed in Healer white, instinctively approached Harry, gently pushing his chin up to look into his eyes. The other wizard faced Lawrence.

"I'm very sorry, Monsieur Pole, this sad visit is made necessary," he said sincerely.

Lawrence, watching Harry, looked up and nodded distractedly.

The wizard pulled a Quick-Quotes quill and a notebook from his robes, laying them on the coffee table. The quill stood erect and ready to jot down his words. "Could you please tell me what happened?"

Lawrence sat, indicating for the man to do the same. The house really was such a mess. But the thought seemed stupid and pointless.

"My nephew had been staying with me since Christmas break began, but he wanted to come home today," he began. Harry was obediently following the mediwitch's instructions. "So I sent him ahead and told him I would bring his bags over later." The wizard glanced at the luggage still sitting by the fireplace. "When I got here, no one seemed to be here. But then I found..." Lawrence stopped, pulling in his breath and looking at Harry.

"Where was your nephew?" prompted the wizard kindly.

He looked back at the man. He seemed twice Lawrence's age. "I found him in François's studio. Down that hall, the door on the right." He waved at the second doorway.

The other man nodded. "You were close to your brother? Had he seemed depressed lately?"

Lawrence felt his face fold with sadness. "No more than usual."

"I'm sorry, but it's procedure," said the wizard. "Do you mean he was often...?"

He sighed and looked at his hands. "François tended to internalize things, yes."

"Was there a particular reason your nephew wasn't staying at home for the holidays?"

Lawrence glanced at Harry, sitting quietly and not looking at them. The witch was gone. The wizard looked at him patiently.

"It..." Lawrence trailed off.

Abruptly, Harry turned. "We were fighting. I didn't want to... see... him." The dazed expression hadn't left his face, but he was no longer as blue.

The wizard hesitated. "You're Harry, right?" Lawrence nodded for him. "Would you tell me what happened after you came home, Harry?"

"I..." said Harry absently. Lawrence put an arm around his shoulders. "The Floo... and. And. And I don't..." The boy looked at a loss.

The man leaned forward. "Harry, it's best if you just let it all out now. It will help."

Harry stared down at his red hands. "I..." The hands clenched on his lap, turning white under the wash of dried blood. Lawrence could feel under his arm all the muscles turning stony and hard. Harry's teeth thrust downward into his lip. "I don't... I don't remember."

The boy's whole body tensed and Lawrence was afraid his bones would be crushed by his own taut muscles. The man was about to say something, but he intervened.

"Can't you do this some other time?"

The wizard closed his mouth and nodded. He stood. "I'll be just a moment." He entered the bedroom.

"Lawrence," Harry muttered.

"Yes?" He bent toward him.

He still stared at his hands. "I really don't. I don't remember."

Lawrence didn't say anything. The boy might have unconsciously blocked the memories because of the shock.

The wizards and the witch emerged from the bedroom. From where Lawrence sat he could see a drifting, white shrouded figure floating behind them. He swallowed and stood. The witch stepped close and pressed a piece of parchment into his hand.

"Those are the names of some good counselors," she said softly. "For you and especially for the boy."

Lawrence nodded but gave it back. "Thank you, it's very kind. But we already have a sort of family counselor we go to."

She glanced at Harry. "A familiar face would probably be best. But try to get him to talk about it soon. It really does help."

"I," he hesitated. "I really don't think he remembers."

She frowned. "He might need more help than that, then. Would you like me to set up something with a specialist?"

"I..." Lawrence suddenly realized the enormity of his position. As scatter-brained as his brother had been, he'd been a decade his senior and actually rather responsible. Lawrence tore his eyes away from the shrouded figure. "I think we should take it one step at a time."

The witch looked at him kindly. "We'll keep your brother at the hospital until you can arrange for your undertakers to pick him up. We've also taken care of the bathroom, so don't worry about that."

Lawrence could only nod.

The witch and one of the wizards guided the figure to the fireplace. A crushing weight clumped in his organs like cement as he watched the awkward trio disappear into the emerald flames. He glanced at Harry. The boy's eyes threatened to squeeze out of their sockets as he watched the same process. Lawrence pulled him to his side, pressing the smaller body into his own ribs.

The wizards nodded at them. Lawrence pulled Harry toward the fireplace.

The man that had questioned them said, "We'll have a follow-up to finish the report. Just worry about getting some rest now."

Lawrence gave him a confirming look and took a pinchful of the green powder. He tossed it into the fire. Holding Harry close, he called out his own address and stepped into the flames.

-

He stared down at his nephew for a while, Dr. Swann not far away.

"I'm going to leave a sleeping draught for you, too, Lawrence," said the older man.

He nodded and quietly pulled the covers up over Harry's back. His eyes ached even though it was only a little past nine. After leaving François's flat for the little set of rooms over his shop that Lawrence called home, he had immediately called Dr. Swann.

The man had stepped from the fireplace, took in the situation, and instantly began grieving with them and comforting them. Lawrence had gratefully given over to his bewilderment at the sudden loss, but Harry was still retreating into a rather catatonic state. Unfortunately, Lawrence was not given time to dwell and had to leave reluctantly for Pole Manor. Dr. Swann had assured him he would keep an eye on his nephew.

He hadn't wanted to be the one to inform his mother and their family about François. It was too much. But there was no one else. Yet that feeling of saying it aloud would make it true... it had weighed heavily on him. Madame Pole's abstracted expression as she heard the words dropping from her youngest son's mouth, the merry lights bubbling around the gigantic tree, the horrified silence of the gathered relatives – he had no desire to linger on the memory.

People said with loss comes a hole in your heart, in the fabric of your being. Lawrence felt no such hole in himself; the chasm was in reality where there had been his brother. It was the facts that were devastating. The fact that he would no longer appear in his doorstep, in any doorstep, the fact that there were paintings still in his studio that could never be finished, that there would never be that sheepish smile again, that François would never know Harry had forgiven his father and forgiven himself.

But maybe he'd known. That last painting...

"Lawrence?"

He looked up. Dr. Swann was looking at him.

"I'm fine," he said, folding his hands across his knees.

"No, you're not."

Lawrence gave a short cough of laughter. "No, I'm not." He sighed. "It's just so..."

"Unexpected?"

He nodded.

Dr. Swann shook his head. "It is. I thought we had shown him that there were ways to cope. Even if we had not shaken away his grief. Of course, that mightn't have been possible for him in any case..." He pulled a chair beside Lawrence's and sat looking at Harry's still face. "Poor boy. If only keeping away his nightmares would solve anything."

"Did he talk to you?" Lawrence asked.

"No," he said, combing a hand through his beard. "Nothing. As if he'd been given the Dementor's Kiss."

"He said he didn't remember."

"Most likely the shock led him to subconsciously stifle the memory. But I think it will unearth in time, when he's ready."

"Talking, especially with you, will help, won't it?"

"Not necessarily 'especially' with me... But I'll start making time for him to come to my office. Do you want to come as well?"

Lawrence let his cool hands rest against his feverish eyelids. "I think I should."

"You're very strong, Lawrence. Unfortunately, much stronger than your brother was. I believe you'll be able to 'cope.'" The doctor shook his head. "It is such a misleading word. It merely means your days will steadily be a little less painful. Those day-to-day things that preoccupy us will slip in once more, unnoticed. And before you know it, a year goes by. Two years. Half a century."

Tasting the tart and the sugar in those words, Lawrence studied Harry. "He won't understand that though. Even if you told him."

Dr. Swann followed his gaze. "Yes. It breaks the heart – I was seeing François when he was much younger than Harry. When he adopted him, to be frank, I was worried. It was so soon after Amélie and Charlotte died. But François seemed to grow stronger as Harry grew taller, so I couldn't help but be happy for them."

Lawrence suddenly bit into his lip, closing his eyes. He was so selfish. Why did have to leave? God, couldn't he see...?

As if he had read his mind, Dr. Swann said, "I don't know what François was thinking. I don't think we ever will. But we need, for our own sakes if anything else, to learn to forgive him and ourselves. It's such a hard lesson. I don't know that it ever gets easier."

He nodded. Silence spilt between them for a moment. "My mother said to come to the midnight mass, 'be that as it may.' But I'm thinking I just don't want to bother."

The doctor stood, nodding. "Be sure to take that draught. I'll contact you in the morning."

Lawrence stood as well. "Thank you for coming."

They exchanged a last look before the older man stepped quietly out the door.

-

"Madame is taking care of the funeral arrangements." How strange to be talking about such things in this surreality. The new surreality born already tattered with many holes.

"That's a little less of a burden," Dr. Swann said.

They sat in his office, winter sunlight pooling beneath the windows. Harry stood in one of the bright puddles and stared outside with his back to them.

"Won't you sit down, Harry?" asked Dr. Swann.

The muscles of the boy's back tensed. "No."

"All right," he said, "but I think you should talk to us."

"I don't want to talk."

Lawrence was about to stand, but the doctor waved him back down.

"Harry, please –"

"I don't–!" the boy turned to them. His strangely inflamed eyes dominated his puerile, statuesque face. A merciless Michael, warrior archangel. He murmured something.

"What?" Lawrence asked.

Harry looked away. "I don't want to be called that."

"Called what?" The doctor's brow wrinkled.

"That name," he said. "I don't want it anymore."

"You," began Lawrence, confused, "don't want us to call you Harry?"

The boy's hands clenched as he stared off to the side.

Dr. Swann turned his chair so that he was facing him directly. "Then what should we call you?"

Those feverishly green eyes shot to him. "I don't know... My middle name. I want to be called Jean."

Jean? Lawrence frowned. It didn't fit him. Or, it didn't fit who he was only the day before.

Dr. Swann leaned forward. "Then... Jean. I think you need to talk to us about what happened last night after you left Lawrence."

"_I said I don't remember_!" the boy shouted. He stood there, his whole body taut and hard and his eyes burning into the floor.

The doctor stood. "Look at me."

Jean's head snapped up.

The older man's muted violet eyes were soft. "It's all right if you hate yourself now. But you'll realize some day that the spirit simply can't handle that state of mind for long. It becomes too tired."

The boy stared at him, his eyes still angrily fervent. It was obvious he didn't understand.

-

Dressed in black, they stood awkwardly together as well-wishers spoke to them in suppressed voices. It left him feeling a little bitter.

"And where will he be living now?" one woman asked. Was she a cousin?

Lawrence shook her hand with as grateful of an expression as he could piece together. "He's been staying with me. I'm sure it will continue like that."

She passed on with the usual customary condolences.

The boy muttered something beside him. Lawrence looked down, but Jean wouldn't meet his eyes.

"What was that?"

"...Why are you even bothering?"

"What do you mean?"

He refused to look at any of the people trying to give him comforting looks. "Why are you taking me in? You're not my uncle. François wasn't my father."

Hurt, Lawrence turned away.

But he looked back at the boy. "I'm sorry. I didn't think about your feelings. You don't have to stay with me if you don't want to."

Jean stared at the silent people, not seeing them. "...I didn't say that."

Lawrence nodded, saying nothing. He looked at those distant relations, distant people.

-

Jean kicked at the turf. The icy soil crunched beneath his sneaker. He looked around the park, listless. It was pretty deserted; the air was too cold and cruel for the soft, tamed flesh of sensible people. It had been a week since the funeral.

He ought to have gone back to school by now. But Lawrence said he didn't have to, so he didn't. Jean felt himself clench up when he thought about Lawrence. He was probably really worried right now. Jean had taken to wandering out on his own without telling anyone. He wasn't François.

He also wasn't going to see Doctor Swann. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to have to deal with people.

The sky glared down at the world with intense whiteness. He felt he could drown in such a hostile expanse. Breathing a little tiredly, he sat down on a bench. He dug a fingernail into the cold-hardened wood, making half-moon rifts. He suddenly heard sobbing.

He looked up. A few benches down was a little white figure, hunched over with its knees draw up against its face. He watched the girl for a moment. Getting up, he ambled over.

"Hey."

She peeked over her knees. Her huge blues eyes were splotchy and wet.

He stuck his hands in his pockets. "Did you run away?"

"Did you?" she sniffled.

"Yeah." He studied her. She wasn't old enough to go to Beauxbatons yet, although he wasn't sure if she were a muggle or not. Her hair lay thick and curled over an immaculate white coat that matched with her skirt. Her legs were clothed in thick black stockings and very nice-looking shoes. Obviously not from a poor or neglectful family.

"Go home," he told her. "There's no way you could live out here."

She looked down. "I c-can't. No one w-wants me there."

He clenched his teeth. "Just go home. Don't be a bother."

"But!" she stared at him earnestly. "B-but I'm a bother anyway, so...!"

Startled, he looked back at her. She struck him as vaguely familiar. He felt himself getting annoyed.

"Look, if you don't go home, some pervert's gonna get you!"

She looked frightened and sat there, trembling.

Looking down the pathway, he muttered, "Jeez. If I take you to my place will you just call your parents or whatever?"

The girl stared at him with her massive eyes. "Y-you're... not... a p-pervert?"

"_No, I'm not!_" he shot back loudly.

She looked like she would start crying again.

He sighed, trying to cool down. He held out a hand.

"Here. I'm not going to hurt you, alright?"

She stared at his hand for a long while before letting her legs fall over the bench edge and carefully grasping his naked fingers with her two black-mittened hands.

"Okay," she said wetly.

Pulling her down from her seat, Jean held firmly onto one of her hands. "C'mon." He turned down the frozen path and led her away. "And stop crying!"

Little tears spotted her cheeks as she smiled at him. "Okay!"

"You tell a girl to stop crying and she just does it even more. And _smiles_. Cripes," he muttered to himself.

She laughed damply. "But I think I love you!"

He felt himself dissolve into nothingness. "You shouldn't... You shouldn't say that so easily. Especially to strangers."

"But...!" the girl began.

"Jean!"

Lawrence was waving at them outside of his shop. He looked relieved. Passerbys spilled around them as Jean halted with the little girl still clinging to his hand. Lawrence trotted up, looking at her with a surprised expression.

"Cordelia? What are you doing here?"

Jean looked down at the girl. "You know her?"

"She's a second cousin."

The girl, Cordelia, suddenly turned shy and hid behind Jean.

He sighed, "I found her in the park. I thought she looked familiar."

"Well," Lawrence said, rubbing his head, "You've only seen her a few times. Let's go inside. It's freezing out here."

They trampled into the bookshop, empty of customers, and climbed up the stairs to the two bedroom apartment above. Jean sat Cordelia down in the kitchen and pulled the carton of milk out of the fridge. The girl watched, wide-eyed, as he put a pan on the stove.

Lawrence sat across from her. "What were you doing out in the park, alone?"

She looked down at her hands.

"She said she ran away from home," Jean commented, looking around the cabinets.

Lawrence watched her for a moment before shaking his head. "I'll have to call Aunt Marie and Elaine."

"Ah...!" Cordelia jumped, staring at them. She had that frightened look again.

Jean began gradually stirring in cocoa mix before the milk boiled. "Why don't we let her stay for a while?"

"Can I?" she asked anxiously.

Startled, Lawrence stared at Jean's back. "I'm fine with that... if you don't mind."

Placing a warm mug in front of Cordelia, Jean asked, "Do you want marshmallows?"

"Yes, please!" she chirped delightedly. "Lots!"

He pulled a bag out of the cupboards. "We only have the big ones. It's best if you dunk them in for a minute and then eat them."

"Okay!" She began pulling the white, soft lumps of sugar from the plastic bag. Sticking them into her mug daintily, she looked happy.

Lawrence sipped at his own mug of hot chocolate. Jean had poured out Cordelia's before it could get too hot. Musing, he watched his nephew.

Jean looked up. "What?"

"Nothing." He smiled.

Watching them out of the corner of his eye, Lawrence made a call to Cordelia's guardian. When her parents had died, she had been sent to live with her grandmother and maiden aunt – Lawrence's aunt and cousin. He told them how she was fine and safe and persuaded them to let her stay for a while.

It was very possible, of course, that Cordelia was unhappy living with those two women. They weren't entirely pleasant individuals and weren't the sort of people who could deal with small children well. Not that Cordelia would want for clothes or food or shelter, but he could imagine she was very lonely.

"...told you not to say that."

"Why not?"

"Because we've barely met."

"But it's true!"

"How do you know?"

"I just do!" Cordelia sat back, crossing her arms and looking stubborn. Jean looked exasperated.

Lawrence couldn't help himself; he started to chuckle.

"What're you laughing at?" Jean demanded.

"Nothing!" he held up his hands in defense. Below, a bell chimed in the shop. "I have to go. Don't get into trouble while I'm gone."

Before he went down, Lawrence put a hand on Jean's shoulder and said quietly, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For coming back."

Jean looked away, not saying anything.

Lawrence spent the remainder of the day ringing up purchases and helping customers find what they were looking for. As the sun began to creep down into the horizon, he gladly closed up the shop. Climbing up into the apartment, he saw Cordelia sleeping soundly on the sofa and Jean sitting in an armchair, doing his schoolwork. As part of the bargain of Jean staying home, Madame Maxime had insisted that he keep up with the classes.

Jean looked up. "There's a plate in fridge for you to heat up. She got hungry, so I made an early dinner. She fell asleep before she even hit the sofa."

Lawrence nodded and heated up the meal. Sitting across from Jean, he asked, "Is it hard?"

"Hmm?"

"Your homework."

He scratched away with his quill. "Not particularly."

Lawrence glanced at the girl. "I guess I'll need to tell Aunt Marie that she's spending the night."

"She can have my room," Jean said. They sat in silence for a while before he remarked, "She told me why she ran away. It sounded like they treat her like an old doll."

"I imagine so," Lawrence answered. "She certainly is adorable enough to be called a doll. But she's a human being and needs to treated like one."

"She said her grandmother treats her like that, but her Aunt Elaine seems to hate her."

"Well, Cordelia's father did something rather cruel to her years ago," said Lawrence. "She had a crush on him, but of course he was married to Cordelia's mother. When he learned about it, he told everyone. My mother went hard on Elaine. A lot of the family make a joke out of it now."

Jean snorted. He didn't say anything for a while. Dipping his quill into his inkwell, he said, "She seems sort of shy about you."

"Me?" Lawrence said. "Oh. It's probably that stupid thing..."

"Stupid thing?"

"When Cordelia was born, I was... thirteen, I think," he began. "This wasn't long after you... were adopted." Jean was silent. "And my mother arranged for Cordelia and I to be engaged."

"What!" his nephew looked up, startled.

Lawrence waved a hand. "I know. It's such an old-fashioned thing to do. But she said that 'the Pole bloodline must be continued as purely as possible.' I think she would have used Elaine if she weren't in such disgrace in the Madame's eyes."

"But," Jean whispered, mindful not to wake the girl, "you're more than twice her age!"

"I know," he answered. "And I don't have any intention of marrying her. She's just my little cousin as far as I'm concerned. Actually, I'm not even sure that the betrothal still exists."

Jean looked back down at his work. Lawrence could tell he was irritated.

"Don't worry, Jean. Madame Pole doesn't _always_ get what she wants."

He sighed and put away his rolls of parchment and books. "Are you finished eating? I'll start the dishes."

Lawrence gave him the plate and watched as he walked into the kitchen. He looked down at Cordelia. Getting up, he bent over her on the couch and picked her up carefully, blankets and all.

"Are you sure you're fine sleeping on the couch?" he asked Jean's back at the sink.

"Yes."

"Okay." He turned to Jean's bedroom.

The rattling of the plates and sloshing of suds and water paused. "That girl..."

"Hmm?"

The dishes began clacking wetly again. "Never mind."

Lawrence watched him for a while before putting the girl to bed.

As he pulled the blankets up under her chin, he whispered, "I do believe you've changed something for him."

-

"C'mon, Jean, c'mon!" Cordelia laughed.

He stumbled forward, dragged along by her little hands. "Slow down! We're going to fall on our heads!"

"I love you, Jean!" she answered.

He sighed. "What's that got to do with anything?"

She merely pulled him along, running as fast as her little legs would allow. Cordelia had been spending a lot of time at Lawrence's lately. She tended to follow Jean around like a duckling. And no matter what he said, she insisted on saying 'I love you!' even at the strangest moments. It was so weird.

Today she had asked him what 'light food' was. She had wanted to know if it was all white and yellow, or if you ate stars and the sun and the moon, or if it floated in midair. He had told her it was things like fruit and bread, and she had begged him to make a big lunch like that.

"Although, making it 'big' sort of defeats the purpose," Jean muttered to himself.

After preparing lunch, Cordelia had told him she wanted to take it all to her friend. Resigned, Jean had packed it all up and now was being tugged along at what must have been breakneck speed for Cordelia.

Finally, they came to a stop outside of an old, red brick apartment building. The narrow windows stretched up the side of the building with black metal flower boxes stuck into their deep niches. The black paint had chipped off a lot of them, revealing coarse rust beneath.

Cordelia pulled him up the three steps and into the doorway. Tugging the door open, she stepped into a small room with only one other door. Hefting the bag higher, Jean followed her.

"Are you sure they're not going to mind us coming all of a sudden, Cordelia?"

"I'm sure." She was looking at a black panel with rows of buttons. She pushed one.

They waited for a moment, Cordelia staring raptly up at a circle of black mesh on the wall.

"...Yes?" The voice came from the circle, soft and translucent.

Cordelia pushed the button again. "It's me, Cordelia! I brought Jean! I told you I would!"

As she let go of the button, Jean began, "Cor–"

She smiled at him, somehow silencing him. Nothing happened for a long time. Until there was a buzzing sound and the door seemed to click. Cordelia grabbed his hand again. She thrust the door open and ran up a flight of stairs. Jean clambered after her, trying not to jostle the food too much. Cordelia suddenly stopped on a landing, waiting for him in front of an apartment door.

As he stepped up beside her, the door creaked open a sliver. Darkness in the room beyond retreated even at the dim light in the hallway. An indistinct figure stood peering at them in the skinny cleft of the doorway.

Cordelia swung on the balls of her feet, smiling. "Hi, Imogene!"

The door slid further open. A girl, around Jean's age, leaned there against the doorway. He immediately discerned a similarity between Cordelia and her. Whereas Cordelia had large, bright eyes, the girl's inspection of them revealed her large, rather hooded eyes. They both had heart-shaped faces and sensual mouths, their lashes thick. The bridges of their perched noses laid between their wide-spaced eyes. Cordelia was a little skinny around the edges, but the older girl's body hinted at a more severe thinness under the lace at her neck.

The girl stepped back from the entryway. Cordelia skipped in cheerfully.

As the girl closed and locked the door behind them, Jean faced her. "I'm sorry about intruding all of sudden like this. I'm Jean Pole." He held out a hand.

Holding her thick shawl to her chest with one hand and pulling the other out, she briefly touched his hand. Her gaze slid slowly to Cordelia. "I'm Imogene Fréchette. It's fine. I know how Cordelia is."

"C'mon, Jean. Come look!" The little girl pulled him away from the narrow access to the door and out into the larger room.

It was an expansive space – interrupted only by the kitchen separated by a low brick wall which leapt up to meet the ceiling, making another, closed-in room. In the main room, he was somewhat startled to see more than half a dozen cellos either wallowing, belly-up on the floor or languishing against the walls. Little tables with dainty legs scattered around, staggering under lace and perfume bottles and books. There were mounds of books in several spots, sitting with sly mouths clamped shut. A long table stood against a wall with what looked like unfinished sculptures preening sadly in their incompletion. But several other finished porcelain creatures stalked amid the cellos and the books, menacing and demure.

The only 'organized' parts of the room were a corner with decorative screens squaring off a section and another corner cut-off with two plump sofas drenched in cushions and throws, the floor between them thick with pillows like overripe fruit.

"Isn't it great?" Cordelia asked, running a finger down the side of a cello.

"Yes, it is," Jean commented, looking at Imogene, her own expression very bland. "Are you two related?"

She watched as Cordelia fingered a cat figurine. "Yes. Cousins."

"We're cousins two times," the younger girl remarked blithely.

"Two times?" Jean asked.

Imogene sat on an ottoman with its own petticoats. He suddenly noticed her long, effeminate dress. The entire picture of the girl – waifish yet brooding, voluminous yet slender – gave the impression of a strange beauty not meant to be touched. And therefore – utterly depressing in its chastity. Not that she seemed particularly chaste; her slight glance was animalistic and cruelly pure in its hunger for sticky little fruits called emotionless intelligence and human misfortune turned beauty.

Imogene said, "She means by both our mothers and fathers. It's complicated. You would have to see a family tree..."

She had a manner of speaking like a quill on parchment. As ink will begin stark and fade with use, she began full-voiced in her already quiet tones and taper away to a soft ellipses. Although, you never would be doubtful of what she said, so it was somehow attractive.

"Oh!" Cordelia spun toward them. She reached out, plucking up Jean's hand, and showed Imogene the bag. "Jean made lunch for us. It's 'light' food – the way you like."

Imogene stood. "That was very kind of you. I'll get plates."

"Oh, no! We already brought plates and everything," Cordelia said. She put the bag down on a somewhat cleared card table and rummaged around for the silverware and dishes.

Imogene held her shawl near, looking a little bemused. "I'll make tea, then..."

Jean followed her into the kitchen. "If you'll show me where everything is, I'll make it."

"You don't need to..." she murmured.

"Really, I'm very good at that sort of thing," he insisted.

She pushed tendrils of her gently curled hair across her forehead. "Well, all right." She pointed out to him the pots and a box of good Lady Grey tea.

He filled a teapot with water from the tap. Putting it to boil on the green stove, he watched with Imogene as Cordelia began pulling items one by one from their bag and arranging them around pretty odds and ends rather than actually removing them. He ran an eye over the extremely avant-garde image of the room, struck with the singularity of its character.

"Do you live alone?" Jean asked Imogene.

She nodded, her expression still bland. "Since I was thirteen... For more than a year now. I don't go to Beauxbatons, either..."

He'd been wondering if she were a muggle or not. "But you have magic?"

"Yes. I teach myself. Every month a tutor checks on my progress. But really, I'm much further along than I would be if I went to the school." She held no touch of conceit in the statements. Unconcern, rather.

Waiting for the water to boil, they watched Cordelia putter about for a few minutes.

"I'd heard," Imogene said, "about François. I was very sorry. His paintings – I saw them once – were very beautiful."

Jean looked up; there was ice in his throat. "I don't think... I'll ever want to see them again."

She stared back. Although there was no discernable change in her expression, he felt that she could hear the frosting over in his gullet with the words. Suddenly, the teapot shrieked.

He quickly pulled it from the stove. Imogene slipped away silently. Jean watched, from the corner of his eye, as Imogene and Cordelia gazed at the table laid with his food.

-

"What would we be, I wonder?" Imogene murmured.

They were musing over a porcelain and jade chessboard. It was fine and old, the pieces arranged in their pompous places. Jean shrugged, leaning back onto a cushion. Lately he'd stopped wandering all over town and had started visiting Imogene every day. Cordelia came with him now and then. It seemed to give Lawrence less reason to worry, if he could at least know where Jean was.

Imogene touched one of the jeweled figurines. "You, of course, are the noble knight, Jean."

"I don't know about that," he sighed.

She didn't seem to hear. She picked up another piece. "I feel at times most like the poor, pitiful pawn..." Holding it at eye-level, she continued, "Of course, even being a pawn would indicate an actual existence on the board." The pawn dropped to the floor.

Imogene laid back against the brick wall, her head against a cello. They sat, silent, for a while.

"Jean, it's no good," she said softly.

"What is?"

She held her arms. "I think you should go back to school."

"That," he muttered. "That won't help."

"I'm not saying it will," she answered. "But, you need... to think about surviving."

Jean watched her smoothing her shawls and skirts.

Imogene continued, "So it's no good. It's no good being like me."

He looked up into the narrow windows. He stood.

"Okay. I'll go back to school. If a flip out, you better take responsibility."

She smiled darkly. "You know I won't."

"Yeah," Jean murmured. He picked up his coat, reaching for the door.

* * *

**A/N:** In case you're interested, I've made up a Pole family tree; the link's in my bio. 

When I started this chapter, I hadn't meant for it to _all_ be in the past, but that's how it ended up... Hmm, I think I ought to explain more explicitly about Jean's feelings after François died, but that's something I want Jean himself to talk about later.

(edit; I made a mistake on the family tree, but it's fixed now. 11/9/06)


	14. Reciprocity

**We, In Faith**

By Elagabalus

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter Fourteen**: Reciprocity

* * *

Meri flung her bag onto her bed with one hand and struggled with the wet folds of her uniform with the other. She tugged on her robe's buttons, rummaging in the drawers of her bureau. Finally wriggling out of the damp black mess of her uniform (really, why did Headmistress still insist they wear them?), she tossed it on the bed, atop her bag, and pulled something dry from her dresser. She caught a look of herself in her mirror. 

Her mother's features, her father's temper... really, what could she do with herself? What could anyone do with her? She snorted, brusquely wringing the moisture from her dark curls. No use being a ninny. Pulling the dry shirtdress over her head, she indulged in a little vain smile as the light material settled flatteringly over her chest, around her waist, and down her hips.

Meri looked back at herself in the mirror a little distractedly. Her smile froze. Hands sliding from her curves, she felt her spine turn limp for a moment. She shook herself, snatching up a pair of black tights and shoving her legs in. As she headed to the door, her hands plucked up her cloak and grappled with her boots at the same time.

_Jean, Jean, Jean_ was the mantra her mind murmured as Meri flitted across the common room and opened the carriage door. For almost seven years now Jean had been her closest friend, her support system of one, her knight in shining armor, her only reason to be kind. Meri dashed through the cool rain towards the boys' carriage, her feet kicking up the green water puddled in the grass. Did other girls or boys think it strange she and Jean considered themselves friends, _best_ friends even? So what if their genders didn't correlate? She inhaled the deep spring savagery cradled in the winds. So what if their actual 'together-ness' relationship had begun one autumn years ago and waned in the spring? The irony.

But – their relationship could survive so many things. Too bad for those who couldn't understand. Meri slapped wetly at the door handle and clattered into the boys' common room, feeling the warm burst of air on her cheeks and around her legs. Jacques and Pierce were near the fireplace playing cards, explosive sounds crashing over their heads every now and then. Orlando lounged in a recliner, arms flung over the side, feet propped up, and a book covering his face. Izumi waved at her with a quill over a pile of parchment.

She gave him a fleet smile before inching towards Orlando. Tipping the book slightly away from his face, Meri gave him her best charming look.

"Good morning, Orlando."

He blinked at her with heavy lids. "...It's afternoon."

"Well, you looked so asleep, I thought I could trick you," she laughed, winking.

Pulling the book off his head, he smoothed down his starkly contrasting hair.

"So," Meri said, swinging on her heels, "have you decided on an essay topic yet?"

"Essay?"

"The one Madame Maxime mentioned today."

"'S not due 'til the end of the year."

She shrugged, slinging back her hair. "I know, but it's always good to plan ahead."

"I dunno," Orlando muttered, getting up. "Something... essay-like, I guess..." He wandered away, toward the staircase.

Meri felt her expression contract in annoyance. She huffed to where Izumi sat, flopping down beside him.

"Honestly!"

Izumi snorted. "Losing battle, Meri."

"Oh, shut-up," she retorted.

He ruffled through the pages of a thick tome. "Just saying what Jean would say."

She straightened. "Where is he, anyway?"

Izumi looked up. The clean lines of his face were marred with worry. "After class he changed and left with Antoine."

She pressed her back against her chair, putting her fingers to her lip and tugging. "About the whole waking up without even a bruise thing, right?"

"Probably." He put down his quill. "It's really strange, Meri. I wish he would have waited for me. I could've helped with whatever he's doing." A flash of annoyance crossed his brow. "He's always doing this – not letting people who care about him share in his problems. Like we're –"

"Useless annoyances?" Meri smiled ruefully. "Or things too precious to risk harming? It's just one of those things about Jean, I guess." She paused. "It really is too bad you aren't a girl, Izumi."

He spluttered, startled.

"It's easier to forgive girls for waiting in their castles." She played with the edge of her dress. "I have faith in Jean."

Izumi nodded slowly, using his wand to clean up the ink splatters he'd made. "But I don't understand it. How could he, Antoine, Orlando, Jacques, and the girls all wake up without a single injury? It doesn't make sense. We all saw them getting the stuffing kicked out of them. And they all _felt _it. Unless we all had the same dream, something extremely fishy is going on."

Meri crossed her legs. "We heard adults searching in the forest. Maybe they came and healed them just to spook us."

Shaking his head, Izumi replied, "I highly doubt that. For one thing, it's not Madame Maxime's style at all, and I'm sure it's not Karkaroff's or Dumbledore's." He mulled for a moment. "The Potters...?"

She snorted. "They haven't been here since the second task, and aren't supposed to return until the third. And anyway, they're too goody-two-shoes for something like that."

Izumi sighed. "You know, Jean mentioned something about Fresco and Minh from before the second task."

"Are you joking? I can't imagine Minh going out of his way to do something like healing half a dozen 'snot-nosed brats,' if I might quote the affable individual himself," Meri said. "And you know Fresco's wrapped around his little finger."

"Yeah, you're probably right..." he frowned, rubbing his temples.

"Izumi, you don't think... Izumi, what if the Durmstrang and Hogwarts students were also healed? If they were, then maybe they were the ones... "

"Well –" He made a face for a moment. "It requires a lot of expertise to do healing magic, let alone all that they would have had to do. _We_ haven't even studied much past making splints and stretchers. Besides, why would they do something like that for us? Sworn Triwizard enemies and all that."

"Well then, what could it have been?"

He looked up, his brow furrowed. "I don't know. Maybe when Jean comes back we'll do something..."

Meri shifted uneasily. "Where did Jean say he was going? How come he just went with Antoine? Why not any of the others? Ana is really nervous now; she had gotten a broken nose..."

"Roch came in and gave him a note... He didn't say where he was going," Izumi answered. "And I don't think any of the others wanted to go."

"Oh, I don't like this," Meri moaned. "I don't like this at all."

"It'll be alright, Meri."

"But what if it won't?" she demanded. "What if he just keeps getting hell from those Potters? What if this whack-job who fooled around with his memory comes back after him? What if... What if..." Meri shuddered, putting her hands to her cheeks and closing her eyes.

Izumi hesitated. Clumsily, he put an arm around her shoulders. "What are you going on about? Stop overreacting. Things will work themselves out. You'll see." The relationship between Meri and Izumi had never been exactly describable by things like 'two peas in a pod' or 'thick as thieves.' Really, the only consistent binding factor between them was their mutual relationships with Jean.

And Izumi valued that friendship quite as much as Meri did. For different reasons, of course, but the sentiment was the same.

Meri suddenly sat upright, making the arm around her unnecessary. Izumi withdrew it and watched her smile settle again. He eyed her warily.

"You remember the first time you ever met Jean?" asked Meri, smoothing her dress mechanically. "I do. We both met him before we ever met each other."

Nostalgic, he smiled. "Sure. I remember being a little jealous of you at first; you and Jean were in the same House..."

Meri grinned. "I remember being _very_ jealous of you because I kept thinking you were going to take him away from me."

"So that's why you were..."

"Such a bitch to you? Basically." She chuckled.

He shook his head. "I can't imagine what we'd be like now if we had never met him. I, for one, would most likely be even more pathetic than I am now." He laughed self-effacingly.

"You're not pathetic, Izumi."

He gave her a small, strange smile. "Meri, telling you not worry about Jean is probably useless, so I'll just say we need to trust in the fact that he has a better head on his shoulders than either one of us. And, you know, he has the right to make his own decisions..."

Her chair sighed as she stood and the floorboards whispered under her feet as she walked over to a window. She touched the pane lightly. "I know. It's just that... the waiting gets so tiresome."

* * *

"Keeping the rain off is one thing, but it'd be nice if there were a spell to keep off mud," Jean commented, wincing as his boots made loud squelching noises. 

Antoine shook his head. "Here you are, complaining about mud when your friends are probably worried sick over you. I can just see Meri – and I can just see Orlando placidly shaking her off."

Jean grimaced. "I told Izumi I'd be right back. They shouldn't be worrying about this."

"It's really weird, though," murmured Antoine, running a finger over his brow. "I thought I'd have a scar from that cut all my life."

Unconsciously, he held a hand to his ribs. The rain crashed softly around them on an invisible, upside-down bowl. The tinkling and soggy sounds swirled around in the gloom, mingling among the scents of dirt and water and reborn vegetation. Like some queer spring bud, the Hogwarts quidditch stadium popped out of the ground. It towered among the damp mists.

As they neared the entrance to the stadium, they discerned a handful of figures grouped loosely under the tall arch. They were peering out the other side and seemed to be shaking with amusement over something. As Antoine waved away their rain-repelling charm, Jean saw that Malfoy had come with two of his thug-like players and Kurkov had with her a similarly heavily-muscled, swarthy boy. He vaguely remembered a rough midair shove from those heavy arms.

Malfoy spotted them. "Look at this, Pole." He waved toward the pitch, snickering.

Jean stepped closer and saw through the falling rain a single flier, his broom wobbling at dangerous speeds. He seemed to be plummeting and weaving in a drunk stupor. The dull gleam of a red quaffle occasionally swept from the flier, the ball clearly, even in the rain, nowhere near the goals. The entire sight struck Jean as utterly depressing.

"Who is that?" Antoine asked, his face screwed up.

Still chuckling, Malfoy turned away from the field. "Wee Potter. To think the Gryffindors actually call him their star chaser."

Jean shook his head and scrutinized the others. "You seem to be quite well today."

"Funny thing," Kurkov muttered, "when you expect to wake up aching all over, with an appendage or two broken, and you find yourself in perfect condition."

Malfoy rotated his ankle as he said, "Not that I don't mind not having to go to that nag of a nurse, but I certainly do hope whoever did this doesn't actually expect repayment." He eyed Jean.

He folded his arms over his chest. "What are you looking at me for? We all woke up in the same situation, I'm guessing – completely healed and without a clue who had done it."

"So _all_ of your players got up without any injury?" Kurkov demanded.

"All seven," Antoine murmured.

Malfoy nodded, his mouth turned thin and hard. "Come on, if it wasn't either one of you two, than who the hell else would it have been?"

"The adults?" asked Kurkov.

Jean shook his head. "Unlikely. If they had caught us, we'd probably be in detention at best or disqualified from the tournament at worst."

"But we heard them in the forest –"

"Well," interrupted Jean, "I've been thinking – what if that wasn't them we were hearing?"

"What are you talking about?" Malfoy asked, his eyes turning toward him suspiciously.

"It might've been a sound charm."

"Well, that's convenient, isn't it?" the Slytherin said softly. His flinty eyes sparked in the cold and the murkiness. There was a slight straightening in his spine, a light lift of his head. He, pale from his hair to his hands, stood stark within his black robes. Jean suddenly recalled the fact that this was a Deatheater's son.

It wasn't that he had a totally black and white view of Deatheaters, but he would never be likely to forget the days when François had taken him to visit those two little graves. His father had smiled and told the tombs stories, little things about... 'Harry' and himself... But even his child's mind at the moment could discern the sadness in François's reverent hands. He wouldn't forget the fact that his would-be foster mother and foster sister had died at a Deatheater's wandpoint.

Even though François had told him forgiveness was often essential to happiness, Jean had the feeling old dogs rarely ever learned new tricks. Well, Malfoy was no 'old dog' by any standard, but Jean was already piqued with him for previous comments.

"Are you trying to say something to me, Malfoy?"

"Well, you just said it wasn't the real professors out there in the forest," he replied. "Then, who _exactly_ was it?"

"I don't know," Jean snapped. "I just find it strange we heard all those noise and weren't actually caught. I'm just speculating."

"Speculating?" said Malfoy slowly. "You sure? You seem to be the center of a lot of funny stuff lately."

"Has being healed rattled your nerves?" Jean scoffed. "I don't have a clue what 'funny stuff' you're talking about."

"What?" Kurkov demanded.

"Well, since _Pole_ says there's nothing..." Malfoy's gaze flickered for a moment to her but returned quickly to Jean's face. His steady gaze instilled in him the impression to be a bit more careful around the Slytherin.

As Jean returned Malfoy's stare, Antoine stepped forward. "Look, it's all very well and good to go on arguing, but you called us out here for a _reason_, right?"

"Well, since you _say_ you don't know anything about this..."

"Does it really matter? I mean, this way we won't have to go complaining to the professors and they won't be getting suspicious of us."

"You're going to keep an eye on your players and everyone else who was there last night, right?" Jean asked.

Kurkov said, "What? Why?"

"Because, if any of them gets nervous and tells an adult..."

"Alright, we get it, we get it."

"I still don't like this. Whoever went and healed us –"

"And what would you like us to do, Malfoy?"

"This person or persons were probably there last night, so we could look around that clearing."

"And because they left no trace in our _rooms_, of course they would in a forest."

"Look, if you –"

"Hey," said one of the Slytherins in a deep, guttural voice, "lookit Potter."

They turned as one to see the lone flier jerking awkwardly around the field. The broom arched speedily through the pelting rain, bobbing and careening haphazardly. Potter, hunched over the broom handle, seemed to be having difficulty staying on as his steed lurched at random under him. The broom began rising and shaking violently; suddenly it made a quick whirling maneuver and threw its flier from his seat. He was left dangling from the broom, eighty feet above the turf.

Jean cursed and snatched at one of the Slytherin's arms.

"Where are your school brooms kept?"

The ogre of a boy looked at him blankly for a moment, then pointed dimly at a closet door. He seemed to be startled into obedience by the mere fact anyone had not been too intimidated to even look at him more than once.

Jean dashed to the door, opening it and grabbing a frayed and tattered broom from its innards. He ignored Malfoy as he said, "What are you _doing_, Pole?" and Antoine, "Jean –"

He pushed against the downpour onto the field, mounting and leaping into the wet, the gloom, and the ravenous winds. Eyes set on Potter's suspended figure, Jean urged the decrepit broom forward and upward. Together a crooked pair, they devoured the distance and came within a few broom stretches of Potter. But his broom seemed to sense Jean and spun out of reach. As it whirled, the younger boy spotted them.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he shouted. His hair was glued with rainwater to his skull and his robes sagged heavily from his lean frame. Pale and furious, his face squinted at Jean through the darkness.

"Trying to help you!" he answered Potter, nearing him again.

But the broom danced away frantically, pulling out of his reach. Potter yelled and scrabbled to tighten his grip. "I can't control the damn thing!"

Jean attempted to approach the broom for the third time and it simply whizzed away.

"Quit that!" Potter shouted, struggling to keep his hold.

Moving away cautiously, Jean circled under the boy and stayed within hearing distance. "Can you get back on?"

The broom seemed to be vibrating fiercely. Between clenched teeth, Potter replied, "No! Won't let me!" It began to swing back and forth, the boy dangling from it helplessly.

Scowling, Jean kept a steady hand on his broom and a steady eye on Potter as he followed the broom's motions. Positioning himself directly under him, Jean yelled up to Potter, "You'll have to let go!"

"Are you crazy!?"

"I'll catch you! If you have a better idea –"

But the derelict broom seemed to react violently to their words and flashed upward into even more dangerous altitudes, its captive bellowing all the while. Automatically, Jean raced after, but this seemed to infuriate the broom as it twisted violently, Potter's body flying with the force. With an enraged cry, the boy's hands slipped off the slick wood and he seemed to be held, suspended, in midair for a fraction of a second before falling. Instantly, Jean thrust his broom into a nosedive.

As they raced the plummeting rain and boy, the ground rose toward them at an alarming speed. Suddenly, Jean had Potter in his grip like some strange, deformed snitch. But he had hardly any time to clutch at the boy's robes with both hands before his elderly broom buckled under the sudden new weight, dropping in a jolting free fall.

And as sudden as the fall began, it ended with someone's hands clasping onto Jean's own soggy robes. Antoine bent across him, his own ancient broom humming with its efforts, to tug Potter up, lessening the burden on Jean's broom. Together they slowly descended to the muddy field with the younger boy in tow.

Their muscles burning, Antoine and Jean dropped Potter a few feet above the ground. He landed on his feet, but staggered and fell into the mud with an ugly squelching sound. Antoine and Jean landed with similar sound effects, their brooms seeming to sigh in relief. Potter clambered out of the muck as Jean dismounted and inspected him.

"Are you hurt?" asked Jean.

The boy scraped at the thick brown mucus covering him from chest to shoes. He glanced up. "No... Erm. I mean, so – thanks." Even in the damp gloom, you could see the Gryffindor's cheeks aflame.

Jean shook his head and struggled with Antoine over the drenched field to the dry entrance to the stadium.

"Wait!"

They looked back at the boy, his face contorted with worry. "What about my broom?"

"Do you have your wand?"

"No."

"Go look for it in the morning. You'll never find it in this weather." Jean turned away again.

Kurkov, Malfoy, and their friends still hadn't left. Unsurprisingly, Kurkov had a scornful, superior expression as she eyed Jean. But he didn't like the satisfied, almost delighted way Malfoy's gaze switched from Jean's face to the most likely utterly miserable one behind him, a very different smirk dancing at the corners of his mouth.

"Something funny, Malfoy?" Jean asked shortly, putting away his tired wet broom.

The Slytherin held his hands up in defense, shaking his head and smiling all the while. "Nothing, nothing. Just never knew you and Potter were so... chummy."

"He was about to have his face smeared all over the turf," Antoine retorted, tossing his broom into the closet with a clatter. "It was the least anyone could have done."

"I wasn't –..." Potter trailed off, looking mulish.

As he gave the younger boy a look, Jean said, "Never mind that. What happened up there?"

"I went for a ride –"

Someone snorted and Potter gave a general glare to the whole group.

"_I went for a ride_, and all of a sudden my broom started acting funny."

"'Funny'?" Jean prompted.

Potter raked a hand through his stringy, drenched hair. "Wouldn't do what I said. Started tossin' me around and jerking about like it wanted to kill me." He blinked at the ominous implications behind his words.

"How old is your broom? You keep it well maintained?" asked Jean.

"It's my dad's old broom; steady as a rock –"

"And just about as fast," someone snickered.

"– and I just tuned it," Potter finished with clenched teeth.

"Where do you keep it?" Jean questioned.

"In the dorm, under my bed."

"They room you by grades?"

"Yeah..."

"Did you tell anyone you were coming down to the pitch?"

"No..." Potter shifted, watching Jean with wary eyes. "I guess people saw me, though..."

Jean sighed, peering out into the deep rainfall, trying to glimpse into the stands. "Perfect weather for it..."

"For what?" Kurkov demanded. "What's the big deal, anyway? So the brat's stupid old broom went over the edge, what does it matter?"

"It's perfect weather for _hiding_," answered Jean. "Think about it – two odd incidents in just as many days. As Potter says, old brooms are very 'steady.' They aren't flighty or likely to go berserk all of a sudden, which is generally true for all brooms. It acted like it was hexed."

"So this mystery lurker heals us three and tries to kill Potter," chuckled Malfoy. "I think it's pretty obvious what their intentions are."

"Not necessarily," Jean said. "We only have one more task left. Why would someone only try to knock out _one_ contestant now? If they have a favorite, they would want to eliminate the three others – or at least the ones that could actually stand a chance."

Potter looked flustered again. "Are you –"

"No, I'm not," Jean said calmly. "I just don't think that is the reason for all this."

The boy bit his lip and then asked, "Wait, what do you mean, 'healed'?"

"I'm sure Weasley told you, Potter," Malfoy smiled, "that I, Pole, and Kurkov here had a friendly match of quidditch last night. Got a little bloody, if you can imagine."

"But we woke up this morning completely fine," added Antoine with a dark look at the Slytherin players.

"Oh." Potter had a strange look on his face.

"In any case," Antoine continued, "we can't be sure that the two things are even connected."

"It just bothers me," Jean remarked. "All this magic this person is doing, if it is the same person, is very advanced. The sound charm, the healings, the hex for the broom..."

"_Possible_ sound charm."

"Yes, _possible_ sound charm."

"Sound charm?" Potter asked.

"We heard what we thought were the Hogwarts professors coming through the forest, but Pole thinks it might have just been a charm," Malfoy smirked.

Jean gave him a look; the smirk didn't quite match... "It's possible," he said, "and it makes sense if this person or persons mean us well. That sound made us stop the game, which was 'a little bloody.' So they stopped people from getting even more hurt. Then they come to our rooms during the night and heal us, which, along with the benefit of not hurting like hell, insures that we don't have to reveal ourselves to the professors or the nurse. So we leave the match with impunity."

"'Impunity'?"

"We're not disqualified."

"You just said this might have nothing to do with the tournament," Kurkov accused.

"We all have lives _outside_ of the Triwizard, you know," Jean remarked, glancing at Malfoy. The Slytherin caught the look and returned a haughty toss of the chin.

Malfoy stretched languorously. "Well, if all this guy wants to do is help me and kill Potter, then I'm not too worried."

The lone Gryffindor made as if to start forward, but Jean blocked his path. Potter glowered at him. "Look, it sounds like something fishy is going on, and that probably the adults should know–"

"Oh no you don't," Malfoy growled, snapping toward the younger boy. "I don't want to hear you've told a single soul about any of this – especially your parents."

"You can't tell me–" Potter snarled, trying to dodge past Jean.

"Quit it!" commanded Jean. He held his hands up between Malfoy, smiling and rolling his eyes, and Potter, his eyes furiously locked on the Slytherin. "Look, this isn't going to get us anywhere. So we should all just head back to our own dorms and sleep on it."

"Nothing to sleep on," Malfoy shrugged, flicking away Jean's hand. "But no running away just yet. We still haven't talked about a rematch."

"Rematch?" Jean asked blankly.

"We didn't finish the game last night," Kurkov inserted mulishly.

Jean gave them disbelieving looks. "Are you joking? I'm behind in my school work already for the two weeks I had to train my team for last night. If I start failing Madame Maxime will pull me from the tournament, so you two can go and massacre each other again, if you want, but I'm not coming."

Malfoy rolled his eyes again. "Jeez, fine. It was only exciting as a battle royale, anyway. C'mon you lugs." He strolled out into the rain, his mammoth team mates blundering after him.

Kurkov gave Potter and Jean another last disparaging look before leaving without a word.

"Well that was delightful," Antoine commented lightly, pulling his wand out.

Jean snorted, rubbing his temples. "Let's just get back to the carriages. I want to change. Immediately."

They stepped out into the rain, Antoine casting a rain-repelling charm around them.

"Hey!"

They looked back around. Potter stood there looking flustered.

"I, well – I didn't bring... my wand..."

Antoine looked at Jean. He shook his head and looked at the sky. Antoine enlarged the charm without a word.

"Get in," Jean told the boy shortly.

Potter scrambled into the dryness of the bubble, murmuring, "Thanks. And, you know, for not letting me get creamed by my own broom..." He flushed deeply.

Jean made a noncommittal sound.

They trekked silently through the droning rain, the castle drawing nearer with every plashing step. Potter seemed agitated; he squirmed and fiddled with his robes, his open face skewed with thought.

Jean cleared his throat. "I think you ought to be more careful, Potter."

"What?" The boy looked at him blankly.

"_More careful_. As in, not flying very badly in horrid weather. And not sneaking after a bunch of idiots going into your Forbidden Forest."

Potter spluttered. "What? How did you –"

"I guessed," Jean gave him a sly smile.

"Well," Potter muttered. "Well, why _shouldn't_ I do any of those things?"

"Because, you've already had someone try to endanger you."

"What?"

"'_Fourth champion'_?"

"Oh." Potter looked at his shoes.

"I don't know if it's connected or anything," Jean said, "but all the same, you ought to watch yourself at least until the tournament is over."

The boy said nothing for a while, mulling things over by the look on his face. His expression gradually became more animated with agitation as the castle loomed closer.

"Look," he finally said, his pitch a little shaky with anger, "what you said the night the goblet chose the champions – that was a load of bull, right?"

"Something about dying, right?" Jean shook his head. "A little too ominous, but there's always the possibility."

Potter's face contracted furiously as his gaze darted to Jean. He halted in the thick mud, staring at Jean wordlessly. His fists clenched and released unconsciously at his side. Jean, with Antoine at his shoulder, stopped as well and looked back with a little surprise at the change over his demeanor.

"You–" Potter muttered heavily, "Why the hell do you care anyway? What's it to you if I just drop dead?"

"I'm just telling you what anyone else would," Jean said, frowning.

"It's too suspicious!" shot Potter. "You come out of nowhere and–" He ground his teeth in a helpless flounder for words. He looked at Jean sharply. "Why the hell is Ginny all hung up on you? And why won't you just go out with her? She not _good_ enough for you or something?"

"I like Ginny, I just don't–"

"So what? You're a fucking _fairy_ or something?"

Jean snatched at his arm. "I'll have you know some of my closest friends are _fucking fairies_."

Antoine watched them apprehensively. "Jean –"

Potter struggled vicious in his grasp. "_Leggo_ – and what's with goddam Mum and Dad? Are they in fucking love with you too?!"

"What?" Jean asked, letting go.

"At the tasks," he huffed, "they're always giving you the eye and talking to you where I can't hear. And Remus and Sirius – I've seen them talking to you, and, and, and..." His breathing seemed leaden and weighty.

Jean took a step back, watching as Potter's face rather contorted with a violent hurricane of emotions. It was true; he'd spoken to the aurors often and the professors even more, but that hardly justified an out-of-the-blue verbal attack.

"And just now I was almost _killed_ and you– you–" Anger overrode all of his features, blossoming ferally over his face, until he suddenly flung himself at Jean's chest, fists arching through the air like his poorly guided broom. "_It's not **fair**! It's not **fair**! Stop taking everything from me!_"

"Jean!" Antoine exclaimed.

Jean stepped back from the slovenly force of the blows and gave Potter's head a good hard smack. He grabbed the boy's wrists and tightened his hold until his captive could only pant thickly and vainly push against him. Potter glared up at him. Jean noticed with surprise how furiously green his eyes were; he definitely took after his mother.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" demanded Jean.

"_I hate you!_" Potter howled. "I _hate_ you! I hate – hate you. Hate – hate...h– h–" To Jean's shock, his face began to crumple in on itself and sloppy tears escaped from his eyes. Potter fell onto his chest with a sort of sob and started to cry in earnest, the sound muffled, in Jean's robes.

He looked over the boy's head at Antoine in disbelief. Just as surprised, he stared back until a particularly loud wail made him turn away in embarrassment. Jean shook his head slowly, raising his eyes to the low clouds, and gingerly placed his arms around the boy.

Antoine rubbed the back of his neck. "I think I'll run back to the carriage, Jean."

"Alright," he sighed.

"Here," said Antoine, tossing something to him. "Take my wand since you didn't bring yours."

Jean caught it lightly. "Are you sure? It's still pretty nasty out there."

"I'll be fine. It's not far." And the goal keeper jogged out into the rippling sheets of liquid plummeting from the sky.

Jean cautiously slipped the wand into his pocket and held on to the still shaking fourteen-year-old. They stood like that for some time, Potter crying loudly and messily (like a little kid) and Jean, exasperated, silently holding him. Finally the boy pulled away, sniffling miserably, and staring at the ground for shame of doing something so very immature as to burst into tears in front of anyone, let alone another champion in the Triwizard.

"Well," Jean said calmly, "you certainly are a piece of work."

Potter didn't reply, his eyes locked on his feet. He sniffed every second or so.

Jean sighed. "C'mon. Let's go." He patted the boy's shoulder as he passed by, starting again for the castle.

He followed obediently and still said nothing. Jean felt no need to fill the empty air between them. They walked together in silence for a few minutes before Potter muttered something unintelligible.

"What?" Jean asked.

"I'm so useless. I'm just a joke," he muttered.

"What makes you think so?" asked Jean neutrally.

"I suck at everything. I can barely pass any class. I'm way out of my league in the tournament. I can't talk to a stupid girl properly," Potter reeled off the list as if memorized by rote. "I can't even... tell... my parents I'm happy I'll have a new sister or brother."

'_Or brother_.' Jean's gaze darted away restively. "That's hardly _everything_."

Potter grunted dismissively.

Jean paused. "I could tell you things like 'study harder' or 'be open to the girl and your parents; they'll appreciate your honesty'... but that sort of advice just doesn't quite... make the cut. Right?"

Potter glanced at him surreptitiously.

"There are times when you think 'I'm no good' or 'I can't do anything,'" Jean continued. "But there'll be other times when someone will say to you 'I like _this_ about you' or 'You're so much better at _that_ than me.' And you'll realize you need other people to like you, for you to be happy about yourself." They were at the Hogwarts steps.

Potter was finally looking him in the face. His eyes were puffy and he still sniffled every now and then.

"So," Jean finished, clapping a hand to his shoulder, "you just need to suck it up until you can feel that way."

The younger boy laughed low and faint. "Sorry for being an ass."

Jean stepped away, waving a hand. "I'm going back. So you're about to be drenched."

"Bye."

Jean looked at him. He wasn't quite smiling but his mouth was fuller and less flimsy. "Night, Potter."

"Don't call me Potter. Only the people I hate do."

He looked at him inquisitively.

The boy flushed a little. "Well. I don't exactly _like_ you either, so..."

Jean shook his head and walked away, leaving him behind. He smiled a little at the loud yelp the boy gave as the rain hit him all of a sudden.

* * *

_Four years earlier._

She opened the door and he stood there – all wildness and green and night-heavy.

"I know it's late but..." He looked at her helplessly.

She stepped out of the way and he entered the way, crossed the way, explored the way, was woven into the way.

"I just– " His feverish eyes devoured the dimly lit room, skimming and skidding in every direction. "I just can't stand it."

She put light fingers on his arm and he silently slipped out of his jacket. She took it as he stepped warily around the bounded-word (books? prisons!) piles and ran unconscious, comatose hands over the porcelains, white against white. She pressed the jacket against her chest, feeling the warmth and smelling his scent, his voice, his look, his touch.

"I can't stand it. Can't..." He fell onto her sofa. His eyes stopped roving and locked onto nonexistence.

She drifted after him, holding the black cloth in her arms like a bible. Laying the thing among the cushions, she sat next to him, pinning her legs beneath her. He was sprawled over the sofa, arms drifting among the throws, legs tossed over the pillows, torso cradled in the bend, head awkward and bemused.

"Mister Stahr couldn't keep his heart from skipping...¹" she murmured.

He laughed, the fall from the crest. "Witty." He bit his lip for a while. "Anthony Patch² did all he could."

"He had nothing he could do," she answered. "He was justified, in any case..."

He fiddled with a pearly cloth for a moment. "Imogene, I can't..."

She shifted, leaning forward. "What is it, Jean?"

"It's Meri. It's Izumi. It's the whole fucking school." He spat the words out bitterly. "Oh, god, Lawrence." He moaned.

She touched his arm softly.

He stiffened. "I don't want to be Myshkin³ today. No princes present..."

"No happily ever after..." she whispered. Her hands lightly stroked his sleeve.

He relaxed, slowly, gradually, deliberately. She watched the fine film of his skin rising with the pulse of his heart pushing blood to his jugular, thick against his neck. Lovely, lovely, lovely. The skin flowing up joyfully to the jaw – rock carved unto delicacy.

"I'm suffocating there. I don't know how to live there anymore."

"I never knew..." she murmured.

"I can't stand their eyes, their pity..." he said languidly. "Sickness... sickness..."

No noises, no speaking billowing and falling between them. She realized he'd fallen asleep. Pulling blankets and shawls over him, she stared at his sleeping form, mummified within her silks, for a while. She stepped away silently from his side.

* * *

Draco stretched, enjoying the warm sun and the cool breeze. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he gazed down at Hogsmeade, his destination. Once, he'd thought he had perfect 20/20 insight into his father's motivations and actions, but then he'd realized seventeen years of living with the man had taught him nothing except that every night he had a nightcap of scotch and he liked his steak medium-rare. So he failed to be surprised that Lucius Malfoy had come into Hogsmeade for a little 'weekend visit' with his son. 

It's not that he acutally fought with Father, or anything. Most days, they got along quite swimmingly in fact. They were of the same opinion on the general topics (the Ministry was a joke, muggles suck, muggle-borns were weakening the magical blood, etc.) It was on the big old V-word that they differed (not that Lucius knew anything about it; Draco saw no reason to get himself kicked out of the house or disowned or anything).

First off, how fucking stupid does a leader need to be to have people call him 'You-Know-Who' (for the frightened) or 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' (for the pretentious _and_ frightened)? Yeah, yeah, 'fear of name instills fear of person, fear in general instills obedience' (Malfoy, Lucius, 56), but fear also breeds dissention, especially the kind of fear old Voldie was trying to 'reign' with. Jeez, what did the guy expect to do? Kill everyone who didn't like what he was doing? Well, that would have been everyone on the planet except for his (small!) group of followers. He'd probably would've had to knock some of them off too. It's people like old Aunt Bella Voldemort wanted. But she's a loony, so not very dependable.

Well, in any case, being stuck on the guy would do no one any good. He's dead, six feet under, deceased, past his expiration date, dearly departed, etc. So what was he to think when Father insisted on keeping He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's name (irony!) alive and oft spoken in Malfoy Manor? The man was stuck in the past, if Draco were to be asked. Whatever had happened in Godric's Hollow all those years ago had obviously been the 'dead end' (he killed himself yes, yes, death jokes galore...) of Lord Voldemort.

Speaking of that event... Draco had the delightful suspicion he actually knew something Father didn't. The sort of thing Father would, quite literally, _kill_ to know. Jean Pole equals Harry Potter.

Yes, yes, he knew the utter unlikelyhood of the thing; the whole house burned down, no trace left, Wormtail dead, blah blah blah. But he was no tabloid conspiracy theorist, so Draco had decided to take it slowly and gather as much evidence he could before doing... well, whatever it was he decided to do.

Exhibit one – suspicious activities. M. Pole has been sighted frequently speaking with Mr. and Mrs. James Potter as well as with their close friends, Mr. Black and Mr. Lupin. Dodgy, dodgy.

Exhibit two – the physical resemblance. Maybe if you weren't looking so hard, you wouldn't see it, but Draco _was_ looking hard, and it was unmistakable how close in appearance Pole was to the Potters _and_ their Gryffindor spawn.

Exhibit three – 'Pole.' He knew (from Mother's gossiping) that 'Jean' had been adopted by the middle Pole son, the useless one who had been pretty much disowned. And he also knew (from Father's self-satisfied musings on old DE doings) that François Pole's wife (and child) had been dead long before 'Jean' came along. So hard evidence of his paternity was a no-go. For now, anyway.

Exhibit four – strange occurrences. The healings and the broom hexing were already enough to make him take interest in a person; in _this_ situation it simply added even more zest. And then you have the whole 'let's save Potter' bit from a few weeks ago. Brotherly love a-borning? Maybe that was a stretch, but the rest alone was reason enough to keep an eye on Pole.

Admittedly, the guy annoyed the hell out of him, so this wasn't exactly going to be a picnic. But – Harry Potter. What could you expect? However, it did delight him incessantly that his father had no clue about this little situation. It _would_ please the Malfoy elder to no end to have the downfall of his precious Lord V in his strangulating hands. It _would_ – but – Malfoy younger had long grown out of trying to please his father. Who knows? Maybe Pole would actually be the next 'dark lord' (another corny title). A more sensible one, hopefully.

Draco passed lightly under the Hogwarts gate into Hogsmeade, humming a little. He meandered over the cobblestone pathway and glanced every now and then into dingy little shops selling in surplus baubles of no value. Only older witches and wizards about; this wasn't a Hogsmeade weekend and Draco had only been allowed out because of Snape. Ah, his good old godfather. No one so hard to read as him.

He stepped lightly into the musty Three Broomsticks. Merlin knows why Father had insisted on the place for his little 'visit.' Yes, the school castle was a little... _drab_, but at least it wasn't absolutely cluttered with roughly hacked chairs and tables and people. He stepped over someone's splayed leg, grumbling a little. Although, even his grumbling was a touch cheerful.

Madam Rosmerta clicked out from behind her bar, smiling a very red smile. "Malfoy? Right in the back, dear."

Draco nodded and followed the path brought to light by her casual hand gesture. The backroom was much the same as the front, only unbearably hotter – oh yes, and it contained his father. Lucius Malfoy calmly sat, straight and tall, at an ancient table, his understated power and elegance not diminished one iota by his surroundings. The familiar gold-capped and engraved cane (superfluous, yet commandeering) played idly in the man's hand. Icy eyes appraised his son as he entered and closed the door. There was a fire in the grate set in the opposite wall.

"Father," Draco said formally, languidly.

"Draco," his father answered in a similar manner. "Good to see you well." He glanced at one of the room's corners.

Draco started. He had not noticed, coming into the room, the small, black figure hovering near a window. It was turned away from them, apparently inspecting with intense interest the going-ons of those outside. The person, clothed heavily in thick black robes and cloak, was genderless in appearance. How could they stand the heat? Not only was spring generous in its warmth, but the eager flames within the hearth made the room soggy with an excess of temperature.

"Who–?" he began.

Malfoy senior interrupted. "Not for you to be concerned about." The man unconsciously swept a hand up his forehead and over his pale hair. Draco noticed the slight gleam of perspiration gathered over Father's stark features.

He was feeling the brunt of the heat, too. He glanced, enviously and curiously, at the other person.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I wanted to speak with you," Father said brusquely.

What? No useless preliminary queries as to his schoolwork and behavior? And the summons to a sort of out of the way locale – this certainly _must_ be something worthwhile, then.

"Curious, I should say," Draco did say lightly.

Father gave him a quick look – inspection for impudence (he donned his face-of-an-angel). The man cleared his throat. "Son, I've done my best to raise you to my ideals." A feathery stress on _my ideals_.

Draco held himself, his whole body, still. He didn't have a good feeling about where this was going.

Lucius Malfoy continued, "I've spoken to you at length of accomplishment, victory, and place in the world. And you know, of course, certain decisions must be made to attain these things. Certain _choices_ must be made."

"Any specific choice on mind at the moment?" Draco asked calmly. Very bad feeling about where this was going.

"I'll come back to that," Father answered slowly. "You're my son, aren't you Draco?"

"Yes..." He was feeling confused now.

"And as my son, I hope you'll follow where I have laid down my path, the result of all my choices, and even continue that path for your sons."

Draco realized he was talking about being a Death Eater. He relaxed and felt a sense of superiority sweep through him. "Of course, Father. I would never dream or aspire to anything else." A lie here, a lie there...

The man nodded as his eyes stayed locked onto his son, contemplating. "Good... come near, Draco."

The other person stirred, finally turning slightly toward them. Their hood, thrown low, revealed only a glimpse of a bland-faced mask. It seemed familiar. Draco broke his gaze from the black figure and sat by his father. Malfoy elder leaned toward him.

"You've placed second in the tournament so far, and your mother and I are very proud of you." What did the Triwizard have to do with anything? "But we feel..." Father hesitated. "We feel it would be to your best interest to _focus your interests elsewhere_."

Focus your...? Did he mean take a dive? Draco felt his confusion turn into seething anger. He struggled to reign in his outbursts.

"Preparing for the competition is time-consuming and what will it give you in the end, really?" his father questioned in a reasonable tone. "Glory? You're a Malfoy. The name alone ought to make you sit a bit straighter, stand a little taller. The money?" He snorted, seeing no need to elaborate.

"Why–?" Draco started, ignoring the joke.

"Draco," Father leaned in toward him even closer and the lack of distance brought attention to the light hue of red over the trademark Malfoy features and the clear beads of sweat over his brow. "Times are going to change. It's already begun. Things are being set into motion that will benefit us and our hopes for the world in ways you – _we_ can't even begin to imagine. Things are turning around, _turning back_. And if you do as I've asked, fate may very well smile upon you while frowning thunderously upon others."

'Turning back'? Draco's unease settled in again. Turning back to the way things were when Lord V still existed...? What other meaning could there be? And his father wanted him to 'focus his interests elsewhere'? As in, prepare himself for Death Eater-hood? But wouldn't winning the Triwazard (a dangerous enough event) be just as good a preparation as any? He eyed Father's strange expression – one of suppressed passion and enthusiasm. More likely, though, the man was just off his rocker.

Then he remembered the third occupant of the room. He glanced at the animated shroud of black. And it suddenly came to him where he remembered the mask from – it was a DE's. It was an _actual_ mask of a follower of Lord V, admittedly black instead of white, but all the same it was real. He wasn't sure _why_ it was real instead of the lame knockoffs they tried to get you to buy for small fortunes in little niches in Knockturn Alley, only that he could feel intrinsically that it _was_. And in spite of himself, he felt a trickle of coolness down into his stomach – was there some sort of charm on those things to instill fear? Not that any real DE would need it; the reputation carried with the uniform did the job quite fine enough.

Now that he finally took full stock of the other person, it was a wonder he hadn't realized what they were (or dressed up to be) before. But then again, it had been years since anyone in the media had bothered to print pictures of gangs of DE's wrecking havoc. Had that length of time merely dulled his sense of awe for Lord V and his supporters? No, no. Draco was convinced there was no more Lord V. None. Natta. Zero, zilch, nil! Father had obviously just hit his midlife crisis or something and got duped by this wack-job in the corner into thinking that the dark lord had actually returned. _Ce n'est pas possible._

So the best option at hand – humor him.

"I suppose I agree, Father," Draco sighed. "The tournament was a trite little amusement, but I've better things to look forward to, I'm sure." He smiled winningly at his father.

The man returned it joylessly. "Thank you, Draco, for being a good, obedient son."

He answered solemnly, "Nothing gives me more satisfaction." Than to dupe you from Timbuktu.

Lucius Malfoy rose and put his cane in one hand, patting Draco's shoulder with the other. "Our luck, already quite fabulous, will surely take an even greater rise for our betterment. Now, go on back to the school. I'm sure your good friends are missing you."

'Good friends' was a common codephrase in the Malfoy house for Ministry sheep. A warning about Dumbledore and other like-minded professors. Very well, then. Daddy wants to play out his good ol' days, so let's not flutter his feathers.

Father stood looking at the faux-DE. It nodded to the fireplace. Malfoy senior's mouth hardened as he took a pinch of Floo powder from a little wooden box and flung it into the flames. And in an instant, the man was carried away to the address of Malfoy Manor.

Draco waited for the other person to do the same, but they just stood there, looking at him. The uncomfortable feeling of unease set in again.

"You may, may think," it spoke for the first time, voice whispery and muffled, "you've fooled your father, fooled your father, but the Dark Lord is not so easy to betray with impunity. Always punishment."

Draco opened his mouth furiously. He felt ill as well.

"Do as you like, as you like. It makes no difference. In the end, the very end, we shall see who's feet, _who's feet_, you come grovelling to with pleadings for forgiveness."

And at that, they swept away, Apparating into thin air.

* * *

¹ _Mister Stahr..._ – Monroe Stahr, the main character of F. Scott Fitzgerald's unfinished novel, _The Love of the Last Tycoon_. As Jean said, this _is_ a pretty witty sentence, and I'm quite pleased with it. 

² _Anthony Patch_ – Another Fitzgerald character, from _The Beautiful and the Damned_.

³ _Myshkin_ – from Dostoevsky's _The Idiot_. A 'prince' who is basically an innocent idiot, but I referred to him here because of the epitomal scene where Myshkin chooses the truly wretched woman over the girl with whom he could have had a real romance with, thus revealing his true purity.

* * *

**A/N**: Hey, it's been over two months since I've updated. Did you think I went MIA again? Oh ye of little faith! Well, I gave you a _super_ long chapter, so you're happy, right? And it has some pretty interesting things going on (at least I think so...). One reason it took so long for me to update, is that I thought this would be the last chapter before the third task, and I consequently didn't want to write 14 when it was 15 I was looking forward to. 

But I've realized I've left a lot of loose ends (disgraceful!), and so I'm thinking there will be at least one more chapter before the last task (I was going to just wait and make 14 even longer, but I got this really sweet review and it made me want to update ASAP yes, I'm just a review ho like that). And this is a warning (good or bad, however you want to take it), that after the third task, I'll be deviating quite a lot from canon.

This chapter itself... I liked the bit with the two Malfoys best; intriguing, yes? I'm looking forward to involving Draco more... I must admit, he is my favorite character. ::pummeled by Draco haters:: But you know, I'm basing his current mindset on the fact that Lord V never rose. And in canon he _did_ rise when Draco was at the pivotal age of fourteen, so I think if LV hadn't done that, as in WiF, then dissent would have grown a little in Draco's thinking process...

The rather confusing part from Imogene's POV is simply a night when Jean was having a nervousa moment (it's in a style I love and rarely get to use, so I couldn't resist).

And on a sidenote... There are a lot of times when I get a review which points out to me a plothole or something that just plain doesn't make sense, and I usually try later to correct it. I'm human after all, and I do have a life outside of this story. But I'm very grateful to those reviewers and all my readers. Honestly, I don't think WiF would still exist if it weren't for you.

(gosh, that was a long a/n... I really try not to do that to you people... sorry.)


	15. Leap

**We, In Faith**

By Elagabalus

**Disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter Fifteen**: Leap

* * *

It left him feeling more apprehensive than happy or grateful, Albus had to admit, how very quiet Lord Voldemort had been for the past sixteen years. When the Potters' little baby had first defeated the Dark Lord, Albus had felt lotted in with everyone else – he wasn't sure what to think. The baby gone, supposedly dead, and absolutely no sign that Voldemort still existed. Albus had been sorely tempted to lay down his proverbial sword with a sigh and join in with all the celebrations, though touched with solemnity for the little Potter's death or disappearance, and believe that the terror was over once and for all. But his intuition would not let him rest. Actually, if the young Potter boy had been absolutely proven alive, Albus probably wouldn't even have speculated on the absolute end of Voldemort – there was something deep inside him that felt, quite morbidly, the only way to truly rid the world of his evil was to die along with him.

Was it possible the prophecy had already come to fruition? Had Harry Potter defeated Voldemort as a babe and then, by some miracle, survived? Had those horcruxes that coward had made not saved him? Had they misinterpreted the prophecy in some way? Was, as James and Lily believed, Jean Pole Harry Potter? If he was, Albus didn't know if he ought to be forced into that revelation for his own good, for if Voldemort still lived he would most certainly be the first on his hit list. But then again, if the Dark Lord was truly dead, then it might not do any good at all to tell the boy why one of the most powerful wizards in history had been after his blood. Perhaps the best scenario was for James and Lily to regain their first son without having to tell him about the prophecy . Well, that was all speculation and no one knew for certain that this was Harry. (All of this uncertainty had left Albus feeling he had no right to intrude into Lily and James's cautious dealings with Jean, so he had stayed out of the way.)

But – Voldemort alive. It was a disturbing notion, and yet the reality was that it was very possible. The rumors of a lurking spirit in Albania and his own intuition were all that Albus could base his caution on, but even the smallest amount of doubt was enough, he felt, to be on guard. Then that incident not too long ago... Jean Pole knocked unconscious, impersonated during a test that could have proven his parentage, and his memory altered. Who would or could have done all of this? Voldemort? Some faction he did not know about? Had it been over the suspicions that Jean was Harry? What other explanation could there be, though...

But those were not the typical methods of Voldemort, far from it, as he would have been more likely to just kill the boy. But, then again, the Dark Lord had been probably reduced to a helpless parasite with none of his old Death Eaters at his side. So perhaps such methods were the best he could afford at the moment, even though they seemed to be more trouble than simply killing straight off... Did that mean Voldemort was waiting for something? What? Oh, he felt such unease thinking on all of it. And then, there was this almost tactile anticipation in the air, a build-up of sixteen years of quiet and unrest. A dark, dark anticipation for things to come.

-

"_Crucio!_"

An abrupt inhale and a groan from the floorboards were the only sounds to accompany Führer's doubled, vague shape in the dark house.

Crouch, Jr. watched listlessly, a little contemptuous, as the Dark Lord's curse continued to shoot crippling pain into every last fiber of Führer's body, causing his sensitive nerve cells to whip electrical synapses to his brain, all of the snap-fire alerts and biological alarms doing nothing to prevent the terrible beauty of a Cruciatus from the Dark Lord himself. Truly, a work of art, Crouch thought, feeling his brow beginning to perspire with growing excitement. Personally, he felt he could do the brat's work a lot better himself, even if it _was_ only muscle work. Well, basically. In any case, the brat didn't know how good he had it. To be so high in the Dark Lord's esteem at such an early age when he himself hadn't really been able to catch his Lord's eye until he was nineteen. But by then it had been too late. Well, things were going to change! Oh it was so close. Crouch's heart thrilled with his thoughts and the pained cries of dark puddle of robes.

"That," huffed the Dark Lord, "was for not reporting to me at the time I specified, for me having to send Crouch to you to tell you about your last assignment, _AND_ for jeopardizing my plans!" It seemed his Lordship's anger had not yet waned, as another startled scream was provoked out of the brat.

But only the quiet, ragged breathing disturbed the stifled mutterings of the old house. The Dark Lord out of breath because of his inhibiting, cursed weakness, and Führer left gasping on the floor because of his punishment.

"Now," whispered his Lordship. "Explain. _Why _did you attack the Potter boy?"

"I..."

"Don't you dare try to deny it! I can see it clearly in your mind – and all a-thrill you are over it, too."

"I don't –" He seemed to struggle to form the words. "I don't, don't know."

In most cases, this would have been an entirely unacceptable answer, as Crouch knew from pensive Death Eater meetings where there was always a quiet freneticism penned up in their bones and organs, their entire bodies stretched taut, like their minds. They were cannibals at those meetings, watching with lurid delight as one of their fellows or a victim fell prey to their Lord's wrath. And how the trembling, harsh firelight fell rapturously over a bloodied throat or a dusty, deadened gaze. The shadows and gleamings practically raped those bodies!

The Dark Lord was silent. "You're crazy; that's the simple fact of the matter. A risk. But _the_ time is near at hand, and I'll be able to keep better tabs on you. In any case, I still need your skills. I'm only going to allow you out of this house for short periods of time. And I think Barty here will accompany you from now on."

Crouch started. "But Lord, what about you?"

"Quiet!" the Dark Lord barked. "I've survived quite a bit worse than a few hours alone."

Crouch swallowed. "Yes, Lordship."

Führer had silently risen to his feet, shivering.

"Just a little bit longer," murmured the entity within the musty wing-backed chair. "Just a while more..."

-

_Harry didn't like this place._

_It was too large and too open and the people had dead hands and mouths. He was a tiny worm if they looked at him. He crouched in the grass beside the huge pond, letting his hands drift in the cool ripples and watching the huge, deep purple swan ignore him completely. The bird slipped through the pond's layers soundlessly. There were other water birds – strange creatures shedding pure gold feathers carelessly. He hoped François would find him soon and not bring the old lady with shriveled hands._

_He could hear voices behind him. He looked up and saw a boy and girl come over the green knoll from the direction of the horrible, huge house. Their chatter abruptly ended when they spotted him.._

"_Who's the little kid?" the girl asked, eyeing Harry._

_The boy grinned. "The one François adopted." He ambled closer to where Harry squatted by the waters. The girl followed curiously. He nudged her with a look that clearly said 'Watch this.'_

"_Hey," the older boy said, "what's your name?"_

_He sat back on his heels. "Harry."_

"_What's your middle name?"_

"_Jean," he replied confusedly._

"_See?" the boy said to the girl. "Jean Pole! Jean-Paul No-Name!"¹_

_The girl burst into laughter. "Jean-Paul No-Name!"_

_Harry stood, not liking their giggling and the new nickname. He backed away and dashed around them while their laughter made his stomach hurt and he felt angry and sad and –_

Jean awoke in the sunlight, feeling disconcerted and remembering being made ashamed under the bright glare of a summer sun.

He rubbed his eyes and sat up. The view outside the window beside the chair where he'd dozed off was blurry so he placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. Glad for the warm Friday afternoon, everyone had trekked off to the Hogwarts lake to laze about. But an owl had suddenly dropped a thick letter into his hands and Jean had stayed behind. He'd read over it twice and sat thinking for a while before being lulled to sleep by the quietness and warmth seeping all around him.

Why had he demanded to be called Jean four years ago? Masochistic it would seem, to want to be known by something he'd been teased for when he was little. But that hadn't exactly been the reason, as much as he had hated himself at that time. He had felt... _unworthy_ of it. Of the name that belonged to the person who François had loved. He'd wanted to kill who he'd been. He had wanted to kill the weakness. But what had he accomplished? Were things any better now? How could you tell?

He glanced at the letter lying open on the table beside him.

_Dear Jean,_

_Forgive me for being presumptuous, the very act of writing this being so, but I would like to ask you to please spare some time to read over this letter. It's entirely selfish of us to be doing this, but we feel the need to let this be known, if you could forgive us. If you can't, and hate us all the more for it, that's perfectly fine and you'll (and this time we mean it!) never hear from us again. But, if you find you can understand a bit about where we're coming from, please let us know because that alone could be a great comfort. But, to get to the point of this letter..._

_James and I were stupid when we were in school. (James more than myself, but that's beside the point...) But we fell in love and got married, maybe a little too early, but it's too late to reconsider that. And we had Harry. To us, Harry was both the entire meaning of our existence and the major annoyance of. We were so young and were unused to the waking up in the middle of the night to his cries and the bottles and the diapers... Oh, those diapers! It makes me smile to remember all the fights we had over the diapers alone. But we loved Harry. It sounds cliche, but there's no way to completely describe the whole extent a parent can love a child. You feel physically hurt when you go out for the first time after having your baby, you worry irrationally over things like candle smoke being too similar to cigarette smoke so you have to sit with the baby in the dark for a few hours before someone makes you realize that it's the tar in cigarettes that makes them toxic, or you call one of your old professors in the middle of the night to tell them to please don't hold a grudge over that frog in their tea that one time because you're positive your kid will be so much better than you were... Things like that._

_And then Harry wasn't in our lives anymore. I could write volumes and volumes on how much this hurt us, but I think I should just say this – we died that day. I think you, of all people, could understand that._

_We don't believe that Harry is dead. Yes, Voldemort _(Jean had been a little surprised at the mention of the actual name)_ did come to our home in Godric Hollows sixteen years ago on Halloween. You see, James and I had left to see to something important; we left Harry in the care of a man whom we thought had been one of our best friends. But it turned out Peter Pettigrew had betrayed us and let his master into our home. We believe that Voldemort attempted to take Harry's life, but failed. And then there's the fact that our house burned down; we think Peter set it aflame and ran away with Harry to flee all over Europe. But then they found his dead body a month later, without Harry. We believe he abandoned our baby somewhere when he became aware that our Ministry was close behind him... and now we think somewhere in France. It does, after all, match up with what we know about his flight now that we look back on it. There is another reason that we believe he still lives, but it would be best to leave it unsaid. That's very vague, but please trust me when I say that it isn't something to take lightly at all. Jean, I know that this still leaves many questions unanswered, but to fully tell you all the details involving these complicated matters would be to burden you with unneeded information if you choose to stay away from us._

_In the years that followed that horrible Halloween, I suppose we 'recovered' in that our days grew a little less painful and a little more occupied. But, even if we were unaware of it many a time, there was a deep sense of regret growing in our hearts that we couldn't watch Harry grow, that a very important part of our lives was gone. I admit, we weren't always faithful to the thought that he was still alive somewhere. We had doubts often that would confuse us, make us anxious. We worried that if he were alive, whether he was happy. If he was taken care of._

_I hesitate to bring these following matters up because I know you feel they prove little, but please bear with me... Jean, you look incredibly like James and myself. I really did think you were James back from our school days when I first saw you. I don't know all the matters around your adoption, but it seems that there's enough uncertainty that the possibility of you being ours isn't entirely improbable. The hereditary test... As I look back on it, I regret rushing into it when you seemed to have doubts over whether or not... but that's in the past, so let me go on. Does it not seem very suspicious that those sudden events would have occurred? I feel uneasy about that most of all, and we both worry about you._

_I realize as I sit here, my stomach growing every day, that every child is precious and I'm glad, even if you aren't Harry, that you had a father who loved you as much as I believe he did. It was so saddening to hear how his life ended. And no matter what happens, our intentions are not, and have never been, to overshadow your relationship with him. Listening to your reasons for entering the Triwizard made me realize what a strong and kind heart you have. When we met you, you stirred within us more hope than we thought we were even capable of. I can only imagine the sort of slow, deliciously burgeoning joy it would give us to see that hope come to fruition. And, (I apologize because I know you are not comfortable with this), we believe you **are** our Harry. It's not only all of the things above, but this sort of leap of faith we take each time our thoughts turn to you._

_No matter what reaction you have after reading this letter, Jean, we're very glad to have met you and hope that your life gives you more happiness than you know what to do with._

_Very sincerely,_

_Lily Potter (along with James Potter)_

Jean stared out the window, not actually seeing the view beyond.

'Leap of faith,' huh? How many times could he have claimed to have been so brave as that? He'd been too ashamed of himself so many times to stand in the light, to overcome his terror of things past and future. And he still pathetically wanted people (Meri, Izumi, Cordelia, the artists... Imogene) to _need_ him. This stupid complex he had... Was it called kindness?

"Language has too many words," he murmured to the empty room.

What should he do now?

When he was little, things like being teased by those older Pole children and such had honestly made him ashamed of his dubious parentage, although he couldn't have formed that comprehension in so many words at the time and often François's love dominated those doubts time and time again. Despite his father's simple requests to be kind, Jean had secretly felt a sort of aversion, if not hate, of the thought of his real parents. After François had gone, Jean had tried desperately to retain everything that he had taught him, almost as if constructing a religion. But had that just been his self-hatred from that time (most likely still in existence) manifesting itself so that he felt that he had to suffer every penance possible? Was he patronizing François's abundance of love by refusing to take his own 'leap of faith' and grow in his own terms? How long had he felt this immobile?

What should he do now? Despite himself, he could see from the Potters' viewpoints. Their case was believable, and perhaps he'd been feeling that all along. But what did they want from him? What kind of relationship could they develop – if it was all true? 'What good would it do?' and 'I have my own plans,' had been the things he'd said before... but was it just that he was supremely afraid? Inside of him was a wordless, inexpressible terror of death and loss and the end of things. He had a long ingrown inability – no, not even that but more of an _unwillingness_ to invest himself in those uncertain, frightening things called relationships. So how selfish of him to still seek those who would be willing to depend on him.

Maybe that was the real reason he had set François's exhibition as his holy grail; it horrified him to imagine others managing it so that it developed with secrets, parts of itself that he didn't know about.

"I want it to come alive because of me, not the other way around," he whispered with a touch of bitter disgust. "Ha! So that's how necromancers feel."

He sat up and rubbed his temples. He watched the sun commit its flooding bacchanal on the far-reaching expanses of grass and the peaceful lapping of the lake. How tiny and glass-like his classmates looked lounging on the sheltered boundary of the green and blue.

What should he do now? If there was a possibility that the Potters where his parents, and obviously they weren't the horrible people he had imagined them to be as a child, did he want to also take their leap of faith? What did he want from them? More answers? To complete that part of his life that had always been blank and empty? Maybe a part of him had actually truly regretted not knowing who his biological parents were. Maybe this was a chance to begin to move again.

Or maybe he was just thinking too much. What if he simply did what his gut said... which was to contact the Potters again?

"...Jean?"

He started. Pushing aside the letter carefully and the rest of the junk on the table not quite so carefully, he found the blacked-out, enameled mirror.

"Imogene?" he asked it, holding it to the warmth spilling from the window and casting shadows inwards.

"Hello, Jean," the mirror said softly.

Her voice was still its attractive, tapering quill-mark self. He realized, suddenly, that Imogene quite possibly knew more of his soul than any other living being. She, quietly intense and supremely intelligent, had often found him at her door after François's death. He had found he could talk with her in a way impossible with anyone else in his life. She had claimed isolation while isolation had claimed Jean, but either way they understood its numbing entanglements.

"How are you?" Jean asked.

"I'm fine," Imogene replied. "I wanted to ask you for that book on Saint Sebastian²..."

"I'll owl it to you," he said. "Any particular reason?"

"I need it for a study... For the book and a new large-scale statue from marble. When you come home, I want to use you with the statue..."

"Is that the subject of the book? Saint Sebastian?"

"Mm. In a way..."

There was her frequent obliqueness again. He smiled a little. "And a new statue? Are you sure you can manage both?"

"They're of the same embryo..."

"I see," Jean said. "When the term ends... I need to talk with you for a while." It seemed wrong to discuss those things at length without being face to face. Meri, of course, would have flipped out (and Izumi too at a lesser degree) if he had tried to set things like that, but Imogene was different.

"Alright," she said quietly, "I hope you're well."

"I am. Take care of yourself."

She laughed her strange feather laugh. "I'll try." Her presence emanating from the mirror faded.

Jean sat there for a while, running his hand against the velvet of his chair-arm. It grew damp from the motion and the drowsing warmth. He turned his face to the ceiling and closed his eyes. He thought about the contents of his trunk up in his room.

"A leap of faith..." he murmured.

He found a sun-baked sheet of parchment and a quill. He wrote down a few words.

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Potter,_

_There's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up and I'd like to show you something. Please meet me at the Three Broomsticks._

_Jean_

-

His back was _killing_ him. Fresco tried to shift as quietly as he could among the brush and gritty grass. Minh glanced at him.

"_Keep quiet_," he growled softly. He turned back to peering through a pair of binoculars from where they crouched among thick bushes that smelt of dirt and greenness. They were on a hill just above Hogsmeade where they could peer down behind the rows of shops and into the alleys and little crevasses. Also, in the opposite direction above them, they could see the gentle, sweeping slope up toward the Hogwarts castle.

This was the first time they'd decided to try again at approaching the kid since they'd spied on that little Quidditch match between the three older contestants in the tournament. Bloody mess that'd been. He'd have loved to have heard the excuse they'd given to explain themselves.

He glanced at Minh. "See anything yet?"

He didn't say anything yet. "Stay low and quiet. He'd see us if we moved. He's down there in an alley looking up the hill. Someone's with him."

"What?" Fresco whispered. "Who?"

"I don't know," he snapped. "Neither of them seems anxious to come out in the open."

"Man or woman?"

"Man."

"Young or old?"

"...I'd guess young enough."

Fresco frowned. "If it's one of Voldemort's–"

"Then we'll be more than a match for them," Minh injected roughly. "Look up toward the school. Be careful of moving too much."

Fresco sighed but turned carefully all the same to make a light part in the bushes' branches. He gazed up the gentle slope, sighting all the teens trekking down for their long-awaited weekend out of the castle. He knew what they would have to watch for – Jean. When the brat was this close to where Jean was, they would have to look out for trouble. Not that there was much he could do now when practically all the occupants of the Hogwarts castle were converged on the village and too many eyes were likely to spot anything out of the norm.

Fresco started. "There. Jean's coming down."

"Mm." Minh merely continued to gaze, hawk-like, down towards the village. He didn't fool Fresco, though; there was a tenseness in his crouch.

He watched Jean pass under the imposing iron gate and into Hogsmeade. "There's not much to do but wait."

-

"Look, Meri, those are your favorite, right?" Izumi asked, pointing out the Chocoballs full of sweet clotted cream and mousse.

She sighed. "Yeah." Her eyes roamed listlessly over the colorful arrays of sweets reaching up to the ceiling.

Izumi frowned, picking out two and buying them. He placed one into Meri's indifferent hand. As they squeezed their way out of the shop, she looked down at it for a while before taking a small bite with her eyes still roving about without any real interest in the world.

"Don't be too grateful or excited," Izumi told her sarcastically.

She glanced at him. "Sorry."

"You act like he's dying," he said impatiently.

She stared at the Chocoball as its pink and creamy innards started to spill a little from the dent she'd made. "It sort of feels like that. Like I'm losing him to something."

Izumi sighed and stared up at the far-reaching blueness above.

-

They watched him slide through the door with a last 'thank you' directed toward Madam Rosmerta. James squeezed her hand. Cool spring air drifted in from the window to disperse throughout the private room in the back of the Three Broomsticks. Jean looked at them for a while, his eyes a little wary and cautious, before sitting down across from them. He had a package of an indeterminate shape wrapped in a white cloth that he carefully set before himself on the table.

"Hello, Jean," Lily smiled. While tremulously happy, she also felt a sifting fear inside of herself. A million more emotions bubbling and bursting, she slid a hand over the rise of her stomach, a habit she had acquired of late.

"It's good to see you again," James added. She could feel his anxiety, too, in the slickness of his comforting palm. How exactly do you go about repairing a relationship sixteen years in limbo?

The boy looked at them. Extraordinary again to see the exact same shade of pitch in his hair as her husband's, the eyes she would look into with a mirror to fretfully touch a line she hadn't noticed though _these_ were far from lined with age, the bony frame and the slightly inadequate nose. James's image but for the eyes.

"Good to see you too," Jean said as if he were struggling with the pleasantries. He fingered the white cloth package. "I'm not sure where to begin."

"We're just happy you replied," Lily said. She gave him an encouraging look.

He looked up with fathomless eyes and cleared his throat. "I guess – Well, I wanted to say that when I was little – or, at least until I was thirteen, I was called Harry." They stared at him but he hurried on before they could interject. "You see, it was because of this."

Holding it gingerly, Jean peeled away, layer by crisp white layer, the cloth wrapping around the formless package. As he slowly revealed the little bit of green buried within Lily could feel her breath catching and her eyes forgetting how to blink. A tiny sweater lay on the table before them, a little frayed around the edges, but it still had its vibrant emerald color and the white, chunky and clumsy letters 'HARRY' across its front. It was hand-knitted and the maker quite obviously rather inexperienced in the multiple dropped stitches and the strange increases and decreases in odd places.

"Oh," Lily gasped, putting a hand over her mouth. She touched wetness. "That's– That's–" James had an arm around her waist, staring at it too.

Jean looked at them with a mixture of trepidation and caution. "That's what I was found in. What François found me in..." He studied the sweater. Touched it lightly.

Abruptly, Lily leaned towards him. She clasped his fingers in her own hands and smiled up at him wetly. "I made this! Almost seventeen years ago I made this for my baby. It's so horribly ugly, I'd recognize it anywhere! I remember exactly how I thought that Halloween 'It's getting colder,' and how I took it out of that skinny little dresser in your room, and how I lifted your little arms and pulled it over your fluffy head... Oh, you see! You're our Harry."

The boy stared at her and at their hands tangled together as if he didn't know quite what to do. He slipped out of Lily's clasp. "Wait – I mean..." Eyes down, he seemed to think for a moment. He gazed up at them. "I'll tell you about me. Yes, this was what François found me in. But, you see, he was in Paris and he found me–" He hesitated. "In a garbage can."

Lily couldn't stand the image – a trash can in the middle of November. She heard James swallow.

"He told me," Jean continued, averting his eyes, "that he had been taking a walk and heard the cries down in an alley. He picked me up and took me home. He had said that, besides being a little thin around the edges, I didn't seem hurt or anything. He contacted the authorities, but nothing came of it for some reason. So he adopted me. And that's..."

"I can only imagine what he thought..." James murmured with his eyes set on the boy. His hand was tightly wound in her dress and she could imagine his mental curses on Pettigrew's name.

"Finding you like that – I wouldn't blame him if he hadn't tried very hard to find your parents," Lily said softly.

Jean looked at them sharply. "_He did_. He called all the people, they even talked with muggle authorities..."

Lily hurried to say, "Yes, I didn't mean to... But it's–" She hesitated. "It's just odd. James and I did so much to find y-you."

"The newspapers, the media..." James said softly. "At first, they were more than willing to run the stories and post the ads and pictures... But the months drew on and they and even _we_ got tired of all the hoax mail and the false ends." Sadly, he laughed a little. "People can be terribly cruel, you know. All those people trying to pass off babies as ours for money. Sometimes it was even their own. Made you wonder..."

Jean looked uncertain and fiddled with the white cloth splayed on the table.

James went on, "But that's all in the past. We can't change any of that now."

"What about your name?" Lily asked.

Jean gazed back down at the miniature sweater. "Because of this, François chose to call me that. I don't know exactly what he was thinking. Maybe it was tribute, or a reminder for a need to come to terms with everything... Or guilt. Maybe he was just too uncreative to think up something else." He smiled lightly. "Anyway, at first he had told me that it was short for 'Harviel,' but I found out the truth later. He chose 'Jean' because it was the name of his father, who died when François was ten. I think his father meant a great deal to him."

"But," inquired Lily, "then why are you called Jean now?"

He looked up. "That's–" He paused. "It was after François died. I told everyone I didn't want to be called Harry anymore and refused to answer to it. I just... I guess I felt so desperate to cling to everything I had left of François that I just wanted to forget everything having to do with myself. It doesn't make much sense but, you see, I hated myself so much then."

"It's not so incomprehensible," James said. "You lose something very dear and you hate your own weakness for not being able to protect it. The hate spreads until it becomes paralytic."

The boy nodded silently. He studied his hands for a long moment. He sighed, "I don't know exactly what I'm doing."

Lily leaned forward. "You aren't sure you want to be talking to us?"

He shook his head. "It's not exactly like that. I came here of my own free will, but... Even though all evidence seems to point towards the direction of you being my parents, I don't know what I should..."

"We don't want to make things difficult for you," she said. "We know you plan to go back to France, so perhaps we'll just keep in contact. Just exchanging owls every now and then would be enough to make us happy... And I, for one, would very much enjoy seeing François Pole's artworks once you've organized your exhibition."

Jean made an attempt at a hesitant smile. "That's if I win... You said something in your letter about a reason why you believed I was your son but you couldn't tell me it."

"I think," said James, "that that explanation needs to come after another hereditary test, if you will allow it."

Lily started. "James, do you really think –"

"I know it seems contrary to all of this," he made a vague gesture towards each of them, "but it would be for the best for all of us. Don't get me wrong – I do think you're my son." He leaned forward. "But... Well, you said something once like 'I don't think it's beneficial to one's health to be Harry Potter.' And you were sort of right in a way, to be honest. So for your sake, most of all, it would be good to know it for an absolute before we discuss some things."

Slowly, Jean nodded. "I think that would be best, too." His expression had had a slight uneasiness throughout the conversation.

Lily put her hand on his again. "Don't worry Jean! Sure, we'll have to talk more later, but no need to be so solemn! What's more important is the here and now. Make sure you do well in the Triwizard!"

He gave her a wry look. "I noticed that. You seem to be forgetting you have your–" He stopped for a moment before continuing, "that you have Ainsley in the Tournament."

James made a face at her as Lily said with a long-suffering sigh, "That's right. But, in case you haven't noticed, he's got a bit of a big-headedness about him. A little bit of losing wouldn't kill him."

He looked amused but glanced down at his watch. "It's getting late. I think I should go."

Brief, warm yet awkward good-byes, and they watched him depart out into the enveloping spring afternoon.

-

Minh stiffened beside him. "There he goes."

Fresco swiveled around carefully. Jean was leaving the village pub. His eyes sought for and discovered the crouching, shadowed individuals in the back of the rows of shops. Their vague forms seemed to tense at the sight of the dark-haired, bespectacled youth.

"They've seen what they came to see," said Minh in his craggy voice. "So it's now or never." He slid away the binoculars to give Fresco a challenging look.

He looked down at the milling crowds, a mixture of villagers and students. He shook his head. "Too many people."

Minh gazed back down at Hogsmeade. He grunted. "There. Now they've disappeared too."

Fresco sat back on his heels, sighing. "I guess that's it. We'll have to wait some more."

"I bet he's coming back. Seeing what Pole and those Potters were likely talking about."

"No. This was only supposed to be reconnaissance. We'll wait for a better chance."

"You know," Minh began his tone sharp, "if you would stop shitting around and just do things my way, we'd have had the little snot under our thumbs a long time ago."

He turned to face him. "If we did things your way, we couldn't be sure that there would be no repercussions."

"Repercussions," Minh sneered. "What repercussions? The only person likely to be hurt would be that stupid brat, and in case you haven't noticed, he's making life hell for your precious Jean."

Fresco frowned. "I think you're exaggerating a little. He's just confused and frustrated."

"Confused and frustrated?" he said incredulously. "Try cracked in the head." He sat back and inspected him with his only good eye, hard as diamond. "Look, I bet I know where you're coming from. You think 'Oh, he's like us. We've go to save him.' But he _isn't_ like us. You can't be what he is without a thoroughly screwed over mentality. There's no helping him."

Fresco slowly swung his head in denial. "No. You might well be right. But, Minh–" He paused a moment. "I have to keep thinking it might be possible. Other wise..." He shrugged, looking him in the eye and trying to silently convey his thoughts.

Minh made a frustrated sound and gave him a look with a disgust he didn't even try to hide.

Fresco put an entreating hand on his arm. "Look, let's just get out of here. Okay?"

"Fine," he spat, throwing his binoculars into one of their knapsacks.

Fresco sighed. How much longer could he try Minh's patience?

* * *

¹_ Jean-Paul No-Name_ – 'Pole' and 'Paul' would have similar pronunciations in French, so it's easy to make it into that taunt. (I think someone mentioned it before) Children really are just little beasts sometimes.

² _Saint Sebastian_ – A ancient Roman soldier who was sentenced to death by the emperor on discovery of his Christianity and attempts at converting other soldiers. Archers loosed many arrows into his body, but he recovered under a pious woman's care. He confronted the emperor, was actually killed, and his body was attended to by another woman.

* * *

**A/N**::sighs:: I am not entirely pleased with this chapter. The writing was like eating a hair and peanut-butter sandwich (slow, hard and like cement). Oh, well... I keep double-guessing myself and thinking that I'm forgetting something, or not making something clear. This story isn't as fun as it was before, and I'm thinking of having a break from it.

(A reviewer mentioned that they got confused by the amount of OCs and suggested I make a chart or such, so I did. The link is in my bio. I added a few doodles of some of the characters to it, too. Tell me if you're still confused or if I forgot somebody.)


	16. Suspicion

**We, In Faith**

ByElagabalus

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter Sixteen: **Suspicion

-

The earth and the night were still. Globs of white light posed high above his head and the moon, almost a whole sphere, spilt its innards all over the land. He stood on a hill, a church nearby. A rambling, quiet village scattered below while in the other direction a great old house, almost a manor, peered down on everything, old and disapproving. But closer around him were the vertical monuments to those who were now merely horizontal. Silently, not really worrying about the queerness of the situation, he reached out and touched one of the gravestones. Many were old, cracked and others were young and clean with flowers at their feet.

He looked up and saw people coming from the large house. They were vague growths on the dark land, traversing with purpose. There were two of them, and as they entered the graveyard, he could see that one carried an awkward bundle. He suddenly felt something was wrong. A much more corporeal strangeness slinked around their ankles.

The two cloaked individuals approached a mammoth of a gravestone. The one with the awkward bundle kneeled. They seemed to be talking softly, but he couldn't hear it. He couldn't hear anything, he realized. With the realization, the world suddenly seemed to swing, lashing, on him and press down on his head. A terrible, high-pitched weight shoved down on him. Everything began to accumulate on a single point on his forehead.

Jean awoke, gasping and slamming his palms against his face. His forehead burned terribly. The pain arched and dug from the dermis to the epidermis, the cushy tissues, to his skull and he could swear it was trying to slash down through his brain. But finally the pain slowly faded.

Breathing deeply, he wrenched himself from bed and stumbled out the door. The floor of the hall felt cool to his feet as he passed down into the bathroom. Turning the lights on, he stood leaning towards the long mirror. He inspected his face. Skin pale and damp, his thick black hair laid on his forehead, oppressive. He lifted the clumpy strands. The lightening scar stood out startlingly pink and swollen. He traced the still throbbing scar tissue with a single finger. How bizarre.

What in the world had that dream meant? Had it triggered that sudden pain in his scar? He usually never noticed the thing – it lay hidden under his hair and had never meant much to him because he had no idea how he'd gotten it. He vaguely recalled asking François about it as a child, but not receiving any sort of definitive answer. Would the Potters know anything about it?

With a disgruntled noise, he let his hair fall back down. He was overreacting. A bad dream and a little sting shouldn't be getting him all worked up. He turned off the lights and returned to bed.

-

"_Ackerly_. _Ackerly_!" Ainsley hissed across the Great Hall. His voice did not, of course, carry over the loud clumps of morning chatter. The object of his attention had just entered the Hall, Oleander by his side.

"He's not looking," grumbled Ainsley.

Beside Ainsley, Dennis squirmed unhappily and stared off glumly at the Slytherin table. "Do you really have to do this, Ains?"

"Of course not," he chirped, standing up and waving. Ackerly, his attention finally caught, rolled his eyes and edged toward their table. "That git's had it coming to him for a while now. Especially lately." Ainsley was irritated. It seemed for the past week or so that a certain denizen of the house of Slytherin had been giving him odd smug looks (unusually so, anyway) and strange little taunts that made no sense. Ainsley did not like being screwed with. And in any case, he thought the school needed a little comic relief from the constant badgering of approaching finals. As a Triwizard champion, he himself didn't need to take them, but that didn't mean he couldn't cheer up a friend or two.

Ackerly swung his legs over the bench, Dennis scooting aside. He gave Ainsley a patronizing look. "Really, Potter, where would you be without me? Quite helpless, I'm sure."

Ainsley blew a loud raspberry in his face. "Shut it. You brought your wand, right?"

"Of course," Ackerly replied, unperturbed. "You know, if you bothered to stay conscious for at least one millisecond during Transfiguration then –"

"Yeah, well, I don't," he interrupted. "But you do. So shut it already, 'cause I think the owls are about to come."

Just as he said it, hoots and twitters burst above their heads, feathers flying everywhere. They looked up into the churning mass of owls, all of them craning to spot one particular bird. Ainsley squirmed and swiveled until he spotted what he wanted. He elbowed Ackerly, pointing up.

"There!" he said excitedly. He fumbled with something in his pocket but kept his eyes and finger on a certain eagle owl circling high against the ceiling. "Hurry up before it finds him!"

"I got it, I got it!" Ackerly squinted up at the bird, discreetly pulling his wand from his robes. He muttered something under his breath. The owl, once huge, fierce and with tufted ears suddenly became small, caramel-colored, and spotted.

Dennis scanned the tables nervously. "I don't think anyone saw." He stretched to peer at the Slytherin table. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Ainsley nudged Ackerly again. "Next part!" He squeezed something in his fist.

"_I know_," Ackerly hissed, shoving him away. "I'm going to hex _you_ next if you don't shut it." He swished his wand and muttered something again. Instantly, the little transfigured owl swooped away from the ceiling to hover a few feet above their heads. Ainsley grabbed a piece of toast, waving to toward the confused-looking bird. It dropped unceremoniously onto his arm. He grabbed it, Ackerly and Dennis watching tensely, stuffed a bit of toast into its beak, and tied the object from his hand onto its leg. The size of a die but only marked on one side with the signature logo of Zonko's: Weasley's Wizard Wheezes Division, the grainy, minuscule cube dangled innocently from the owl's leg. Ainsley looked about surreptitiously before tossing the bird back into the fluttering, twittering air.

Ackerly watched it shoot into the air and flap about uncertainly for a moment. It suddenly changed from a twitchy little bird into a huge, soaring eagle owl. But the bird still looked confused, lingering up near the ceiling.

"C'mon, _c'mon_!" Ainsley muttered. The other two watched it impatiently, too.

Across the hall, Draco Malfoy suddenly craned his slick head around and spotted his owl fluttering among other owls already heading off to the Owlery. He whistled loudly, looking irritated. The bird seemed to recover itself and dived neatly onto his master's waiting arm. Ainsley started snickering excitedly. Ackerly grinned a little before pointing his wand carefully at the massive eagle owl and whispering a simple unlocking charm.

Instant chaos erupted from the Slytherin table. Angry shouts and surprised shrieks careened from one green-clad student to another, the unhappy noises loudest nearest to where Malfoy had been sitting. Sand. Tons and tons of sand had exploded upward from that tiny cube into the air. It rolled over the table and washed over the Slytherins like an angry tide, crushing them beneath its weight. Mounds of the stuff now stood where there had once been students and a table. The Slytherins clawed furiously or tearily from the sand's weight, coughing and splurting, rubbing their salty lashes.

Several teachers stood, shocked and angry, and rushed forward quickly to help them. Ainsley saw that while Uncle Remus had stood to help, Uncle Sirius seemed to have his head buried in his hands, shaking either in sobs or laughter. He'd bet his bottom dollar on which. Dumbledore was still seated, looking up at the floundering Slytherins with an unperturbed expression.

The teachers tried to Vanish away the sand, but it instantly retaliated by boiling back over some girls just getting out of a particularly large mound, rearing up into a huge sand-built hand and spanking a few fourth-years trying to edge away, and splashing coquettishly into whatever orifice it could reach of the Slytherin Quidditch team. They yelped and pawed at their eyes, smacked sand angrily out of their ears, and waddled around awkwardly, fidgeting with their pants.

Around them, other students gawked at them from their seats, or stood up to blatantly laugh in their faces. A large group of first and second-years gawped with open mouths while beside them upperclassmen from all three unscathed classes clutched laughter stitches. The Head Boy and Girl had rounded up the prefects (many of whom seemed torn between chortling and duty) and looked determined to help the teachers make even more of a mess of the situation.

No matter what charm or spell they tried, it only made the infuriating sand backlash upon the Slytherins. Finally, the bell rang, but no one seemed to notice, either helpless with sand digging into their backsides or helpless with laughter digging into their ribs. Dumbledore stood and shot very loud purple firecrackers into the air from his wand. The room gradually stilled and stared up at him. Snape stood near the headmaster in front of the head table, glaring nosily down at everyone, particularly towards the Gryffindors, still giggling.

Looking very austere, Dumbledore spoke loudly, "I would like whoever has pulled this little prank to know that they will not go unpunished. You may as well step forward now so as to prevent an even worse consequence." Nobody moved. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled a little. "Very well. Then I ask whoever has information on who might have done this to speak to a professor or myself soon. In the meantime, I must ask you all to scurry along to classes, even those now hexed, so that the day may continue as normal as possible. This evening, those affected by the prank are to report to Professor Snape's office before dinner."

The students twittered softly but did as they were told, heading for the doors. The noise grew again as everyone began talking rapidly about the prank. Laughter leaped high again when they saw the Slytherins angrily shoving their way through the crowds, glaring around, with lines of sand slithering behind them. The sand spelled out things like 'I'm a stupid git,' or 'I wet the bed,' or 'I'm a mama's boy.' Filch waded through the mass, looking furious and muttering angrily towards the unperturbed mountains of sand. Chuckling heavily, Ainsley, Dennis, and Ackerly were having a hard time walking straight for all the laughter tears bulging on their cheeks. They weren't aware of someone following them closely until they had made it halfway to their class, and someone shoved Ainsley into a side corridor. The excited chattering around died. The place was deserted.

Draco Malfoy looked down on him with an empty expression. His sleek hair was now gritty and sand dusted him in a thick coat from head to toe. 'I couldn't catch a snitch with no wings buried in cement,' was written out behind him. To Ainsley's alarm, Malfoy's thin lips spread in a slow smile.

"Oh, good show!" the Slytherin said amiably. "Really! _Well done_, old boy! Top notch!"

Ainsley shrugged off his hand. He crossed his arms defensively across his chest. "If you mean about the sand –" He struggled to keep a straight face. " – It wasn't me." He glanced over Malfoy's shoulder to see if Ackerly or Dennis had noticed him being cornered. Only a stream of distracted, amused faces swam past.

"Is that so?" Malfoy asked conversationally. He still smiled. "Because, I got a look at that little cube before it exploded."

"Did you?" Ainsley queried, sounding interested.

"_Yes_," he answered toothily. "And do you know what was on it?"

"No, what?"

"The stamp of Zonko's: Weasley's Wizard Wheezes Division," Malfoy replied, still as nonchalant as ever. He was starting to make Ainsley nervous. "And I know, of course, how buddy-buddy you've always been with the charming Weasleys, old chap."

'_The charming Weasleys_'? Ainsley wondered if there was some strange side affect of insanity from the sand hex. "Well. They let anyone buy their stuff, you know. Not just friends."

"Yes, but I don't like coincidences," Malfoy said, his voice dropping an octave or two. "And I happen to know that you, Potter, are a nasty little brat." He no longer heard any hint of pleasantry in the Slytherin's voice.

Ainsley straightened, glaring. "I told you. I didn't do it. I don't know who did." He smirked. "They certainly do have a great sense of humor, though."

Malfoy didn't say anything. He gazed at him with slitted eyes and a thin mouth. He suddenly put on a smirk to undo any smirk. "You know, Ains, I feel bad for you."

Thrown, Ainsley stared. "What?"

The blonde tutted sympathetically. "_So many_ secrets being kept from you... And _your own family_ – Ah, well." He shrugged, backing away. "I shouldn't say anything. Ciao." He made to leave the side corridor.

Ainsley grabbed at his arm. "What are you talking about?" he hissed. "You've been hinting at some bull like that for weeks now. Spill or just shut your stupid piehole you ass!"

Malfoy looked down on him haughtily. "_Language_, Potter!" He brushed a bit of sand from his cheek. "It really isn't my place to interfere in _family_ matters. Especially such a _touchy_ topic." He patted Ainsley's shoulder with a patronizing hand. "Maybe your _parents_ will let you in on it at some point."

Teeth bared, Ainsley lashed out at him, shoving as hard as he could at the taller boy. Malfoy only stumbled backward a few steps, standing still for a long moment. Ainsley stood prepared for a good brawl, but was shocked again when he only received a sinister smirk.

"_Careful, Ainsley_," Malfoy murmured, straightening. "Trust me, dying in the Triwizard would be much, _much_ more preferable to the sort of horrors _I_ could put you through." Ainsley did not care for the strange gleam in the Slytherin's eyes or the gentle curve in his lips. He abruptly walked away, out into the now deserted hall. Ainsley listened to the footsteps until they were indistinguishable from the quiet wind outside.

What the hell had just happened? What the hell was wrong with Malfoy? Normally he'd get a thrashing from doing something like that... not some sort of _freaky_ reaction. He looked down and saw that his hands were white with the force he was gripping them with. He relaxed his fingers and realized his entire body felt stiff. He shook himself. He had to get to class.

-

Draco fruitlessly tried to shake the sand from his robes. Stupid snotty brat. He should have decked him then and there. But it wouldn't do him any good to get disqualified from the tournament. His father trying to get him to take a dive had made him suspicious, and had merely given him another reason to continue competing. And it was a lot more fun to mess with Potter's head than his face. He shoved his way into an empty boy's bathroom.

He inspected himself in a mirror. Slathered with sand, as expected. He scowled. That Gryffindork had it coming to him. One day. One day. He wiped off the grit on his face. Shaking his hair out, he pulled his robes over his head. Looking back in the smoky mirror, he started and whirled.

A disheveled Rita Skeeter stood leaning against the stalls, her arms crossed, her lips pursed, and her eyes on him. Had she climbed in through the open window? Or by some other route? Her roots were showing and she badly needed a good haircut. Her make-up was patchy, her nails chipped and broken, and her alligator bag looking very much worse for wear. One of her heels seemed to be missing its heel. She straightened when he turned around, and tried to primly straighten out her faded suit. She attempted a smooth smile. She failed.

"_Mister Malfoy_!" she exclaimed. "How lovely to see you. Er. You seem to be a bit sandy." She tried a chuckle.

He didn't return it, eyeing her skeptically. "Indeed. But it seems _you're_ the one looking her absolute worst."

Her botched smile wavered. "Well. Everyone hits a rough spot or two in life."

"Rough? Try chewed up and spit out like rotten gristle," Draco returned frankly.

She looked sour, but kept up her congenial tone. "Yes, well, I didn't come here to talk about _me_. I want to talk about _you_."

"Me?" he asked indifferently, turning back to his robes. He shook them briskly. Sand splattered to the floor.

"Well, you and maybe any little _juicy_ tidbit you could send my way," she said eagerly, stepping forward. The noise her shoes made on the tiles sounded pathetic and wobbly. _Click, clunk. Click, clunk. Click, clunk. _She tottered near.

Laying down his robes on a sink, he pulled off a shoe. "If you mean gossip, there's not much going on." He poured a puddle of sand out of his shoe. He glanced at her. Something wasn't right here with Skeeter. It would be very easy to tell her some nonsense to get back at Potter, but his instincts told him to test the waters first. Her eyes on him were overly keen and sharp.

She toed the pile of sand growing on the bathroom floor. "I think if you thought a little harder you might dig up a little something. Like all this sand. What's the story behind it?"

He tugged his sock off. "Just a little prank. Nothing major. What about you, Rita? Like all this mess." He waved at her vaguely with the sock. Her eye twitched. "What's the story behind it?" He was getting amused. They both knew that at any moment he could report her for trespassing. And there also seemed to be something she wanted from him.

Her entire face turned thin and hard. "_Unimportant_. Honest. Now, if you might explain this 'prank'? I'm sure it could have endangered many student lives! What are the teachers doing about it? Dumbledore isn't _slacking_ or something is he?"

"Well, Rita," he said chummily, pulling off his other shoe. "I wouldn't know anything about that. Really, Hogwarts isn't that interesting." He put on an angelic face.

She didn't even seem to notice when sand from his shoe fell all over her heels. She had dozens of rungs in her stockings. "_Look_, what about the Triwizard? Lot of competition, lot of pressure in the air? Maybe somebody's not _dealing_ well?"

Draco shrugged lazily. "Nope. We're all dandy. _You _don't seem to be dealing well though. Although I don't know what's happened to you, poor girl."

Her eyes slitted. "Is that how it is?" she huffed. "Despite how I _look_ or what people _say_," she said this viciously, "I'm still a good reporter! _They had no right –_" She clunked about the bathroom, muttering as she paced.

"No right?" he asked politely, shaking out his vest.

"No right!" She stamped her foot, staggering as her lone heel flew off. "OHH!" she shouted angrily, kicking it. It careened across the room and ricocheted off the wall. She stood huffing furiously.

"I'm guessing you were fired," Draco commented dryly.

She glared silently for a while, but then her expression cleared. She was smiling again. "That's right, Mister Malfoy, I was let go recently." He looked at her with a touch of concern. Had getting the boot touched her in the head? "And I'm betting the circumstances would interest you."

Draco shrugged. "I doubt it." Sand from his button-up shirt contributed to the swelling pile on the floor.

"Do you?" she chuckled. "Don't be so doubtful, then. I'll tell you one thing, it involves the head of a very prominent pureblood family. _Very prominent_."

He snorted. She was bluffing, obviously. If she were telling the telling the truth, why would it be of interest to him anyway? Unless... If a 'prominent pureblood family' had something to do with her getting fired, than that meant blackmail. Skeeter hadn't been publishing very important articles lately. Not since the drivel last January about Pole. And the only pureblood family who would even mildly be interested in getting rid of Skeeter because of it would be the Poles...

He glanced at her casually. "I'm sure it's quite interesting." He began putting on his clothes again. He was guessing Skeeter had no clue exactly how interested he might be; she was just fishing around for _anything_ that might help her get a story. "But you know, it's a little shallow to assume that every pureblood is out to know every bit of gossip about every other pureblood."

She tittered. "Yes, but it also involves, I believe, someone you've associated closely with."

"So?"

"_So_, this person is one of your rivals, now, aren't they? Maybe if you helped me, we could even use this piece of info to bring him down." Her eyes, buggy and anxious, locked on him. So she wasn't completely stupid. At least she realized why she got fired, if not everything about the situation.

He didn't want to push his luck, so he straightened and looked at her cautiously. "I'm listening."

She smiled and came closer. Her perfume was stale. "One evening at the office, Mister Malfoy, I happened to pass by the editor's door and heard murmuring within. I caught my name, so naturally, I decided to investigate. I slipped unnoticed into the office, nevermind how –" She said this last to his raised brow. "And what did I see and hear? My boss conversing by Floo with one Madame Madeleine Pole." She paused to give effect. He obliged by looking faintly surprised. Undaunted, she continued, "Their little talk consisted of the Pole matriarch outright bribing the editor to fire me. She said her reason was merely 'discontent in the quality and content of my work.' As if it had anything to do with her!" She clenched her teeth. "And just like that, all of my long hours and devotion to my job are forgotten and a few galleons take my place."

Draco shrugged, pulling his robes back on and dusting them off. "You're taking this a little naively. People pay people off all the time." But inside he was excited; it was another interesting little tidbit about Pole! After all, it wasn't like Skeeter's articles had been particularly damaging to Pole's reputation or anything. Well, nothing that a week or two of downtime couldn't fix. So why had Mde. Pole interfered? Was she trying to prevent a certain secret from getting out? Did this mean she actually _knew_? And if _she_ did, how many other people knew?

"—mean, _think about it_. What could she be protecting him from? What dirty little secret are they hiding?" Skeeter seemed to have gone off on a tangent along similar lines as his thoughts.

He shook his head. "Sorry. Wasn't listening." She gawked angrily at him. "Oh, well, it doesn't matter. Because, you see, I'm not interested, Skeeter. He probably just went and whined to her about the article you wrote a while ago and she went and spent a little pocket change on getting rid of you. In any case, you fail to interest me. I suggest you get lost before I report you for trespassing."

Her mouth fell even farther. "Malfoy." He turned his back on her and walked to the door. "_Malfoy._" He swung the door open and heard a loud thump on the other side. Someone groaned. Frowning, Draco stepped around the door. Lying at his feet, dazed and bewildered looking, was Neville Longbottom.

"_Longbottom_?" Draco said, surprised. He scowled and roughly pulled the boy to his feet. He looked at Draco wide-eyed.

"Malfoy?" Longbottom murmured confusedly. His neck swiveled around, his eyes focusing haphazardly on the area. "What happened?"

Draco snorted and shoved him against the wall. "If you're trying to act your way out of a beating, you've got another thing coming, Longbottom. What were you doing outside the bathroom? Thought you'd play the spy, eh?" He pressed down a little cruelly on the other's chest. Longbottom's breath caught, but he continued to stare at him without comprehension. Déjà vu slapped Draco back to the memory of several months ago. Chatting with Pole and Kurkov, and finding Longbottom nearby. And then there was the battle royale with Pole and Kurkov. Longbottom had been the one to set what Pole thought had been a false alarm. Draco's grip on him suddenly tightened.

An accusing bark began to rise out of his throat, but he stifled it. He suddenly grinned down at the Gryffindor.

"Fancy yourself a little peek, did you, Longbottom?"

The boy looked even more bewildered. "What?"

"I guess you're really not a pussy fan, eh?" Draco quipped snidely, letting go of him and giving his shoulder a not-quite-friendly smack.

Longbottom spluttered, horrified.

Draco continued, "Too bad there wasn't anything to see, right, Ske–" He stopped. He turned to the open bathroom door to discover that it was empty. Skeeter had disappeared somehow. He floundered for a moment before returning to himself. "Nevermind." Looking back, he gave Longbottom a good shove down the hall. The boy slipped on the polished marble and fell flat on his buttocks.

"Now see here, Longbottom, you little pervert," chirped Draco, "I don't want to see your snivelly little mug around again, so I suggest you make yourself scarce for a long, long time."

The Gryffindor didn't need any other encouragement. He stumbled to his feet and slid noisily away. Draco watched until the boy had turned down a different corridor. He glanced at his watch. Classes started an hour ago. Someone would cover for him, though. He swung towards the entrance hall.

If his suspicions were correct, then Longbottom would most definitely not follow his advice on the matter of disappearing from his sight. But if they were wrong... Well, either way the stupid Squib had something coming to him this evening. Crabbe and Goyle were getting restless after such a long celibacy from Quidditch. He shook his feet as he walked. Damn sand. Shaking his clothes out seemed to have done nothing. Must remember to punish Potter. Which he could have done through Skeeter, but there were better things to be doing.

Speaking of the ugly hag, where the devil had she gone? She couldn't have slipped by him while he was chatting with Longbottom; he would've noticed. Out the window? But they were several stories up. Perhaps she used a Levitation charm or had a broom hidden somewhere. Well, nevermind. She no longer mattered. Ms. Skeeter had lost her already mediocre little place in the world, and he had the feeling that she would be hard put to find her way out of unemployment's sticky little grip. He was betting that Mde. Pole had not only warned the _Daily Prophet_ to keep their copy clean of Skeeter's name, but every other prominent wizarding paper in Britain.

Well, the woman had no clue what she'd given him. Something definitely was amiss about M. Pole. And the more he discovered, the more interesting it became. Tut tut. Such a busy day ahead of him!

-

**A/N**: This is a terribly, _terribly_ short chapter, and it comes after an extremely long wait for you readers. I apologize. And I'm afraid that there will be just as much, most likely more, of a wait ahead. If you're interested in the reasons, please see my bio.


End file.
